Valyrian Steel
by mellowenglishgal
Summary: 'She was ashamed to have let them down. She was supposed to look after them, after Brandon and Rickon. She was not a Stark; but Robb had entrusted Winterfell to her, to her and Luwin and Bran… She had sent Rickon off with Osha and Shaggydog and knew she would never see them again; she felt it in her marrow. She had Bran alone; and he was forgetting who he was.'
1. Beneath the Tree

**A.N.**: Literally just finished watching the finale…

Happily for us in the know, there is a fanfiction to soothe every ache and _right every wrong_. And there were oh, so many. Now I don't feel at all guilty writing my own version to correct the atrocities they bitch-slapped us with. I am most seriously displeased. Anyone wants an in-depth discussion re _Game of Thrones_, PM me, I'll be happy to email _ad nauseum_.

I've wanted to write a _Game of Thrones_ Jon-has-a-twin-sister story for ages, and even started another (_A Dance of Ice and Fire_) but Larra appeared in my head, and she was so mentally tough and lonely and afraid, I thought…I _need_ to write her: She needs a decent, fierce, clever man in her life to gentle her and help others see her true nature, which is fiercely maternal, nurturing, protective, and loyal.

Larra is inspired by watching Michonne's PTSD and Carol Peletier's strength in _Walking Dead_, Lagertha's fierce maternal instincts and warrior nature in _Vikings_, Demelza Poldark's tenacity, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, and Ned Stark's quote that Robert never saw the "iron underneath" Lyanna's beauty. I was listening to _The Hunger Games_ soundtrack, too, so there's a little of Katniss' distrust and a good deal more of her devotion to her sister.

I should probably point out from the beginning: Bran the Broken WILL NOT RULE THE SIX KINGDOMS.

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_ 01_

_Beneath the Tree_

* * *

It was warm, under the great weirwood. Warm, and musty; like living inside an acorn, tucked neatly under the earth. She was as blind as a buried acorn here, surrounded by ageless roots and the soft, relentless cawing of ravens; she didn't wonder why the gods wanted faces carved into the trees to look out over the world of Men. It was dull in here.

Dull, and timeless: The world went on without them. Days had bled into months: She wondered how many years they had wasted inside the hollow.

It was beautiful outside, in a starkly brutal sort of way. Here in the land of always-winter the winds howled, or whispered, and the snows buried the cave entrance, and melted in the glare of an impossible sun, and through it all, its great ivory trunk groaning in the wind, its fiery leaves like so many bloody hands, the weirwood endured.

Beneath it, impossibly, so did they.

Bran held onto the tangle of roots, the Three-Eyed Raven guiding him in his visions. Bran learned, and she waited.

She waited for Bran; and she waited for the dead. With every scream of the wind, every avalanche of snow roaring across the valleys, her heart leapt, anticipating hordes of the dead pouring through the caves, crashing over them like waves against the shore, destructive, unceasing, tireless.

She was utterly powerless.

And she knew it.

The longer they remained, the more Bran learned; and the weaker she became, waiting, wasting away. She could feel it. The long journey had strengthened her, every last ounce of fat lost as her muscles burned and her blisters turned to calluses and her bones ached and they struggled forever northward.

But with inaction, that hard-earned muscle was wasting away, leaving her emaciated. She saw it in Meera's face, in the hollowed cheeks and distracted brown eyes losing all hope. They tried to keep themselves busy; to distract them from the aching hunger, the desperation, from wondering…what happened next? How much time did they truly have? How long could they linger beneath the tree, waiting? In a barren wasteland of ice and snow, there was little to distract them: only the Children.

She wished she could tell Maester Luwin. While Brandon learned from the Three-Eyed Raven, she and Meera listened to stories from the last of the Children of the Forest. What she wouldn't have given to tell Maester Luwin a lot of things - and Old Nan: the Children were not gone, and dragons had come into the world again.

Bran had seen them.

While Bran was tutored by the Three-Eyed Raven in green-seeing, the Children trained her, and Meera, using staff and spear, using throwing-knives with lethal precision. Small, tactile blades of dragonglass. Maester Luwin had called it _obsidian_, and he had a link of it on his heavy chain. The frightened, brave Night's Watch boy Samwell Tarly had given Larra her first dagger; it had been left at the Fist of the First Men, the last place wights had been seen in vast numbers… She learned how it was that the White Walkers could be killed by it…the origins of the White Walkers themselves… A weapon, created by the Children…to wipe out the First Men.

The Long Night had broken into a new dawn, but the Night King had not died: He had slept.

And now he had awoken.

And they waited. Here, under the weirwood, where the ancient magic of the Children protected them. The Night King could not enter, and nor could his legions of wights.

As Bran learned to embrace his visions, even steer them, she and Meera sparred, and tried to forget their hunger, their dread. The helplessness. They tried to keep their spirits up, in this desolate place, for Hodor's sake, if not their own. All the way from Winterfell, she had carried the small doeskin pouch that opened into an embroidered game-board, which her twin-brother Jon had gifted her on their fourteenth name-day; they played the game with pieces made from carved bone, bear-fangs, polished conkers and interesting pebbles they had picked up along their journey.

It kept Hodor content: He played that game for hours on end, and she could believe he had no cares in the world, watching him play with the Children, Summer curled up beside him, his great head resting in Hodor's lap. Sometimes he let Hodor scratch behind his ears and pet his shaggy pelt.

Other times, like now, Summer stood at the entrance to the caves, his breath hot on her neck as she squatted in the snow and watched. They watched for his sister. Summer and Last Shadow: She had sent her dire-wolf into the wilderness… A wild thing should be free.

That was what the wildlings had told them. The small family, all that was left of a clan that descended from the First Men, too proud to unite with the crow who flew down from the wall and became King beyond it. They had tried to convince her, convince Bran and Jojen and Meera, even simple Hodor, that south was the only way: North was death.

Sometimes she wondered whether they had made it to the Wall, but couldn't bear to ask the Raven.

She knew she would never forget their faces. Nor their kindness, in this desolate place. What little they had, they had shared, against all their instincts for survival, contradicting every story she had ever heard growing up. She hoped they had opportunity to barter her brother's name for their passage south; it was all she could give them.

Because the Wall was all that stood between the living and the dead.

She wondered where Last Shadow was; and whether Jon had made it back to Castle Black.

Outside the eerie keep that echoed with the screams and whimpers of abused women, she had watched him fight as the snow fell - yards from him, she had almost bitten off her own tongue to stop from screaming for him.

_Her_ Jon. Her twin-brother. The brother she never thought to see again, so close she could see the sweat blinding him as he fought Night's Watch mutineers. She'd thought, _He needs a haircut_. And he'd grown his whiskers out. He had looked exhausted, and older than she remembered - and so like Father and Uncle Benjen it made her heart ache.

Walking away from Jon was the hardest thing she had ever done.

But it was necessary. Whatever she had to do to keep her little brothers alive, she had done. Nothing else mattered. And that meant she had had to make some terrible decisions.

There was the softest rustle behind her, and her hand curled around the obsidian dagger tucked into her belt. The Children and Meera always left their weapons at the entrance to the caves, but she could not sleep without hers. If they had to move quickly, she wanted the assurance that she had _something _to defend herself or hunt with… She had been caught out before; and Maester Luwin always said she was a quick learner.

It was Leaf. Nut-brown skin dappled like a fawn, vines and leaves woven into her strange hair, nimble and elegant with three fingers tipped with claws black as her obsidian spear, with large ears that heard more than Summer's, and keen amber-green eyes that had watched the ages pass. One of the last of the Children of the Forest. Her songs in the True Tongue had made them weep, even though they couldn't understand the words. In translating, they discovered Larra's gift for languages; the Children had been teaching her words and phrases, _songs_.

"Are we to have another lesson?" she asked hopefully.

"The Three-Eyed Raven wishes to speak with you," said Leaf, in her gentle voice like a summer breeze soughing through fresh leaves. Behind her, Larra could see Meera, waiting patiently.

"Has Bran eaten anything?" Larra asked.

"More than you," Meera replied, and Larra gazed out over the brutal, unforgivingly beautiful landscape. She would never forget the awing beauty of the true North. She sighed. She was starting to forget what hunger was; she was clinging to the memories of what being warm felt like.

"More blood-stew," she sighed grimly, but not ungratefully. The stew the Children made was all that sustained them, thickened with barley and onions and chunks of meat. If not the stew, they subsisted on hundreds of kinds of mushrooms, or the blind white fish the Children plucked from the black river, with cheese and milk from the goats that shared the hidden cramped warrens.

What she wouldn't give for an apple. Blackberry and apple pie with buttery pastry and lashings of fresh custard.

They were not starved here, but it was not their home; and the Children were wary of her.

"I like to imagine I'm sitting at my Father's table, during a name-day feast, eating all my favourites," Meera smiled, though it barely touched her eyes. They kept up appearances for Hodor's sake, and because Bran needed no other excuses to be petulant and aggressive; together, they were allowed to be angry, to be frightened, and _fraught_. They didn't have to hide from each other. Meera could grieve Jojen; and she could fret for Rickon, leagues away with a wildling woman who looked upon him like a son. But she and Meera also buoyed each other; they stopped the other from sinking into melancholy, from drowning in her dread and despair.

How long before Bran became like the Three-Eyed Raven? Able to witness everything that happened in the world, and remain wholly disconnected from it. The Three-Eyed Raven saw every tragedy and yet felt no grief; witnessed delight, yet felt no joy.

The Three-Eyed Raven had been waiting for them. For Bran.

Larra had merely helped Bran get here.

She wondered what the Three-Eyed Raven wanted with her.

He was easy to find, of course; he never moved. He and the tree were one: The bleached roots spread and twisted from the cavern ceiling like an eerie chandelier, the cave larger than the Great Hall at Winterfell, and as cramped as a feast-day, murders of crows cawing incessantly, the uneven ground littered with the bones of the dead - animals, the Children, even giant's bones, the skeletons of monstrous bats draped from the ceiling… Had there been any natural light within the caves, it would have shed eerie shadows across the walls. But there was not: No starlight, nor daylight penetrated the caves. And nestled within the gnarled roots, on a throne of woven weirwood, was an old man, his vellum-brittle skin colourless, except for the mark on his face. His hair was pure white, and his one eye, when he was not greenseeing with Bran, was blood-red. An albino. And a Man. He was not one of the Children; but he had lived amongst and been attended to by them for years, here under the weirwood, waiting.

The Three-Eyed Raven raised his head slowly when she entered the cave. It was musty and close, ageless bones crunching underfoot, and she felt the fine hairs at the back of her neck prickle with awareness, sensing eyes on her. Not just the Three-Eyed Raven's, but the birds' and Hodor's.

Brandon was looking at her in a way he never had before.

"What has happened?" she asked, frowning, her hand immediately going to her belt, to her dagger. She had lost the one sword they had chanced to steal from Winterfell's forge, just before reaching the hollow: But she had her new obsidian weapons now, daggers and a hatchet, a double-ended staff, and arrows. As many as she could make, and carry; the Children had taught her. Dragonglass arrowheads; glossy black raven fletching; and shafts of bone-white weirwood.

"Alarra!" Bran panted, staring at her. She frowned, still grasping the dagger at her belt. "I _saw_."

She shot a glare at the Three-Eyed Raven. "Where did you take him this time?" Brandon always returned from his visions frothing with excitement - or dug into his resentment like a tick: The more the Raven showed him, the more he wanted to see. The more he saw, the longer he wanted to stay. She was losing him. Her brother Brandon Stark, the fearless boy who loved to climb and wanted to be a Kingsguard, he had died the day he fell from the tower; another, angrier boy had woken to find his back broken and his mother gone. And now Brandon Stark was changing once more; the longer he stayed locked inside his mind, inside his visions, the less he was like Bran when he woke.

Bran wanted to stay inside those visions.

At her darkest times, she believed she was here merely to stop Brandon from drowning in them.

And her dark times were dark. At her worst, she missed Jon so fiercely she thought her heart might burst: She resented Bran, for insisting they risk their lives to get here, for being a cripple, for being unable to help her keep Winterfell, or take it back. She hated Theon with a venomous passion that seemed to make her blood boil; and she was angry with her father, and tucked in her furs in this unyielding darkness she wept bitterly for him, and for the mother whose name he had denied her, forever lost - he had never given her a name, not once uttered it, not even to her own children, the only people who had any right to it.

Alarra had always dreaded being forgotten: It broke her heart to be left behind. Now she was the only one left to remember. She had to live with all that had happened to her family.

And she was ashamed to have let them down. She was supposed to look after them, after Brandon and Rickon. She was not a Stark; but Robb had entrusted Winterfell to her, to her and Luwin and Bran… She had sent Rickon off with Osha and Shaggydog and knew she would never see them again; she felt it in her marrow. She had Bran alone; and he was forgetting who he was.

"I have a gift for you," said the Three-Eyed Raven. For once, his one eye was red, not milky-white: And he reminded her of Ghost, her brother's albino direwolf.

"A gift, my lord?" she asked sceptically, and the Raven chuckled softly. He had a dry sense of humour, even in this forgotten place; perhaps he was just grateful for the company. His visions were all very well, and as he had told Bran, in them he was always with the brother he loved, the woman he desired - but they never heard him: They existed now only in memory. The world's memory; and he was its keeper.

Bran remained quiet, and she didn't understand the look on his face when she glanced at him: As if he did not know her. There was something like…_awe_. No, she did not understand it. And he did not speak, only watched, as several of the Children appeared. One approached Larra, carrying something bulky. In the flickering light of their torches, Larra discerned the shape. It could be only one thing: A sword, complete with scabbard and belt, both of leather, and glinting with the familiar sheen of obsidian.

But it was the pommel of the sword that drew her eye, the eerie light bringing to life a flower of flame crackling silently. A sense of something prickled in the pit of her stomach, recognition or dread or anticipation; it felt…_momentous_.

And she knew instantly…it was not just the sword the Raven was gifting her. The axe had to fall…

But she took the sword all the same, frowning at the pommel, and the fat ruby set into the cross-guard, etched…with a three-headed dragon. The Targaryen sigil.

Carefully, she unsheathed the sword a few inches, and in the torchlight, the ripples and folds of steel imbued with forgotten magic seemed to move like smoke in the shadows. Valyrian steel, bearing the Targaryen sigil.

"Dark Sister," she whispered. How many times had Arya asked her to read the Targaryen histories to her when she was little? A lost longsword, once wielded by Queen Visenya Targaryen, and with which she had founded the Kingsguard of legend when she cut the Conqueror's face with it before his protectors could react; wielded by the Dragonknight - always Larra's favourite; and by Jaehaerys the Wise; by the Spring Prince and the Rogue Prince; and by…

She raised her eyes to the weirwood sharply.

"You are Lord Rivers. Brynden the Bloodraven, Master of Whisperers. You were Hand to King Aerys the First _and_ to King Maekar. You were Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," she whispered, stunned, and gasped, realising, "_Lost_ beyond the Wall…"

"Once, I was Brynden Rivers," the Raven nodded sadly. "He dwells within me, but I am the Three-Eyed Raven now. There is little room for the Bloodraven." Her eyes slid to Bran, just for a second: Was that not Bran's fate? To become what the Three-Eyed Raven was? The apprentice must at some point become master. Would some fool boy one day seek this cave, and find an elderly cripple calling himself the Three-Eyed Raven, last of the great greenseers, to learn all that ever was and is, everything that might ever have been and never was, like stillborn babies?

_We have to survive that long_, she thought grimly, and her eyes flicked back to the Three-Eyed Raven.

"You cannot give me this sword," she whispered, wanting to pass it back to the Children; but they had melted into the shadows. She gazed at the Raven - _Lord Rivers_, the Bloodraven of her storybooks.

_A thousand eyes, and one_… The old nursery rhyme about the notorious Master of Whisperers…the Three-Eyed Raven… Rather, two-eyed… The Bloodraven had lost his eye to his half-brother Bittersteel…

"To my shame, I took the sword with me when I journeyed to the Wall, though it was not mine to keep," said the Raven. "My brother had bestowed it upon me, you see - I could not bear to part with it."

Lord Rivers, one of the legitimised Great Bastards of Aegon IV - the _Unworthy_…

"This is a Targaryen sword - a _king's_ sword," Larra said, shaking her head. "I cannot take it."

"Once, Dark Sister was wielded by a firstborn Targaryen daughter, older sister to a king…now it shall be again," said the Raven. Larra blinked at him, waiting…the churning sensation in her stomach, the veiled hint… "Dark Sister is yours by birth-right."

Larra went cold, refusing to listen to what the Bloodraven _hadn't_ said, but had implied.

"I have no birth-right," said Larra crisply, honestly. One bastard to another, he should _remember_… Bastards lived half-lives, no true place in the world except one they managed to carve out for themselves. She had been left behind at Winterfell because she had no place in the world: She could not join the Night's Watch and earn the honour her birth had denied her due to her gender - nor could she be used by Father to secure the allegiance of his bannermen. They would consider any proposal to wed her an insult, when he had two lawful daughters. She had no place, and no value, and so had been left behind, to raise the children and aid Maester Luwin. And she knew it.

"You do." It was Bran who spoke, quietly, and it was the gentleness in his tone that made her wary. Brandon was rarely gentle anymore, reminding her more and more of Rickon, the wildest of them all. "Larra…I've seen. The Three-Eyed Raven has shown me…so many things - things about the Rebellion, and Father…and your mother. I've seen your mother, Larra."

Her heart stopped, and resentment coiled like a volcanic beast in the pit of her stomach, a baby dragon writhing and clawing and burning her insides. All she had ever wanted, for as long as she could remember wanting anything at all, was her mother's name.

And _Bran_ had seen her.

All her life, she had wanted to know, _ached_ to learn her name, and whether she had curly hair like theirs or pretty eyes or liked to dance…she had wanted to know if Ned Stark had _loved_ her; she had wanted to know her mother was beautiful, and kind, and clever, and had loved Father. Growing up, it was all she had: That Ned Stark had loved her mother more than he had _ever_ loved Catelyn Tully, that nothing his wife could say or do would ever provoke him to send them away, because he had loved her _so_ very much, and loved her still. It had been a dream, a fantasy, that her parents had loved one another more than they loved anything else in the world.

"It doesn't matter now," she said quietly.

"But it does," Bran said gently, and the gentleness unnerved her. "It has always mattered. And that is why Father kept it from you, and from Jon. From everyone."

Their way was the old way: He who passed the sentence should swing the sword.

A blow was to be dealt: Bran made sure he was the one who delivered it, not some stranger lost to legend. She stared down at the sword, at the whispers of gold and silver glinting amongst the steel grip, the fat glowing ruby set into the rain-guard. It was an exceptional sword.

"Lyanna." Bran spoke quietly, but she heard the name, and the silence in the cave was deafening. "Your mother was Lyanna Stark."

She flinched, and anger blistered her insides.

Lyanna Stark, who had died in Dorne after Rhaegar fell at the Trident; whose bones were interred with the ancient Kings of the North. It wasn't just an empty tomb: Father had brought her home.

He had returned from the war with a corpse and twin babies.

She used to see Father lighting the candles around Lyanna's statue.

And his rare smiles always faded whenever someone remarked how similar Larra was to the wild Northern beauty famously carried off by the Last Dragon.

She knew the stories; they all did. How could they not? Their House had almost faced extinction. Seven kingdoms had bled because of Rhaegar's infatuation with a Northern wolf-girl; a dynasty three-centuries in the making had ended with by and blood.

"If Lyanna was my mother, then you are telling me Ned Stark was not my father."

"In the ways that matter, Ned Stark was indeed your father," said the Bloodraven solemnly. "He raised you, educated you, protected you. But the man who fathered you, the man who took Lyanna Stark into his bed…that was the Last Dragon. Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone."

Larra exhaled a breath she hadn't realised she was holding, feeling hollow.

"Rhaegar never kidnapped Lyanna," Bran said softly. "He loved her, Larra… He saw the iron beneath her beauty; he saw her strength and her kindness… You remember Meera's story, about the Knight of the Laughing Tree?"

Larra frowned, glancing over her shoulder at Meera, who lingered, her eyes wide, lips slightly parted. "I remember. At the Tourney of Harrenhall, he defended the honour of Howland Reed."

"He did. Only it wasn't a 'he'; it was Lyanna," Bran said, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "King Aerys commanded his men to find the mystery knight; Rhaegar found the weirwood shield up a tree…and Lyanna. I saw it. Larra, I saw them. I saw the whole thing - how they met; when Rhaegar crowned her his Queen of Love and Beauty. Rhaegar never kidnapped Lyanna, or raped her: She _chose_ him. He saw exactly who Lyanna was. And he married her."

"Rhaegar was wed to Elia Martell, Bran, everyone knows that. He carried off Lyanna when he tired of the Dornish princess."

"Elia was ill; another pregnancy would have killed her. Rhaegar had his marriage to her annulled, he wanted Elia to retire to Dorne," Bran told her, shaking his head in his urgency. "The High Septon wed Rhaegar and Lyanna in a private ceremony on the Isle of Faces, a ceremony of the Seven, in front of a heart-tree; Rhaegar's friends witnessed it, Ser Arthur Dayne, all of them. They escorted Rhaegar and Lyanna to Dorne, to the tower Rhaegar called Joy…where you and Jon were born after Rhaegar fell at the Trident."

Ned Stark had ridden south after lifting the siege of Storm's End: And when he had found his sister, in a Dornish tower, she had been guarded by the most legendary swordsmen in the Kingsguard for generations. Ser Oswell Whent, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, and the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne…

Ned had returned from Dorne with his sister's dead body, and twin babies.

_Lyanna_…

The only person Ned Stark would ever have loved enough to sacrifice his honour. To protect _hers_.

To protect _them_.

She had finally learned her mother's name.

And with it, all hope had died.

She remembered, vividly, sobbing bitterly at the unfairness of Lady Catelyn's hatred of her; at having no mother. She had sobbed for missing her; ached to know her name; and dreamed of the day her mother would come to Winterfell and take her and Jon away, somewhere they would be safe, and happy, and know a mother's love.

After years, she finally knew her mother's name. And she knew that her mother had been dead and gone for decades.

The only hope she had ever had was that one day, she and Jon would meet their mother, and know that they had been loved, even from afar. She would look at them, and her kind eyes would crinkle as she smiled, the way Jon's and Uncle Benjen's did, thrilled to see them, relieved they were healthy and strong and good.

Lyanna Stark.

Dead in the tower of Joy years ago. The last of the great casualties of Robert's Rebellion.

Had she known Rhaegar was already dead, as she laboured to bring Larra and Jon into the world? That Robert had been proclaimed king and all hope was lost for the Targaryen dynasty?

Had she _given up_?

"Why are you telling me this? Why now? Father kept Lyanna's secret, he kept us safe, what does it matter now?" she asked, and her voice rang around the echoing cavern as she panted, her blood boiling in her veins. Father had always called it the wolf-blood; he had warned her that Lyanna had touch of it, her uncle Brandon more than a touch…

"Because you ought to know…" Bran said, staring at her in that way he never had before. He was truly _looking_ at her, as if he had never seen her before, as if he was looking for something in her face - and had found it. His lips parted. "He _loved_ her. And she loved him."

"It doesn't matter. Jon and I - we don't _matter_," Larra said fiercely. But even she heard the crack in her voice, the desperation.

Father had found Lyanna dying _in her birthing-bed_ in Dorne…and brought his bastard twins back to Winterfell. Because their mother…was dead… Her _mother_.

"But you do," Bran said softly, staring at her. "You always have. After the Siege of King's Landing, Father journeyed all the way to Dorne to find Lyanna. She was protected by three of the most lethal Kingsguard to wear the white cloaks in generations… Father told us the story, how many times? But he never told us _all_ of it. But I have seen it. Father found Lyanna, bleeding to death in her birthing-bed, her newborn daughter in her arms as they wrapped her son in his swaddling-cloth." Larra could not meet his eye; hers burned, as she scowled at the longsword in her hands, too hurt, too devastated by the loss.

Her mother, snatched away from her the moment she learned her name.

"Larra… You were _wanted_, and by no-one more than Rhaegar and Lyanna," Bran said firmly. "Rhaegar was gone before you were born, as was Aerys, and Rhaegar's children by Elia Martell. The Queen was in exile on Dragonstone, expecting her last child, her surviving son still a boy. All Lyanna could do, as she lay dying, was hold you - and make Father promise."

"Promise to what?" she moaned, heartbroken. If all this was true, and she knew it was, then her father's life had been more honourable, his death more tragic than anything she had ever heard.

"To protect you. To protect you, and your twin-brother…the heirs to the Iron Throne," Bran said quietly, and she flinched again. "She was dying, and she was _brave_, Larra… She made Father swear, she refused to die until he had sworn an oath to her, to protect you. The heir to the Iron Throne; the future of House Targaryen."

And he had.

Ned Stark had loved his sister more than anything and anyone; more than his own honour.

Even the Dragonknight had never protected his beloved as well as Ned Stark had protected his sister.

He had protected them all their lives; and he had died, protecting his sister's secret. He had let her die, virtuous and tragic, forever young and beautiful, songs sung of her tragic romance with the brilliant, noble young prince.

But Lyanna _had_ died. And Rhaegar had been murdered at the Trident: His infant son Aegon and daughter Rhaenys had died gruesomely the same night as the Mad King…

With a horrible sense of finality, Larra accepted the devastating truth; that all Bran was telling her was irrefutable.

It all made far too much sense to deny.

Her mother was Lyanna Stark, the wild she-wolf of the North; and her father…the Last Dragon, Prince Rhaegar.

They had never been bastards.

Jon had been born a king.

They had a claim to the Iron Throne. Jon had the _only_ claim to the Iron Throne.

And that frightened her more than any Night King's army of wights: The dead could only kill them.

"Lyanna lived long enough to name you. Jon she named Aegon, after Rhaegar's great-grandfather, Aegon the Unlikely… And you, Larra… Lyanna named you for Rhaegar's mother…Rhaella…"

"Rhaella," she whispered. It sounded foreign on her tongue. Because it was. An old name, a _Valyrian_ name, remnant of a lost culture, the ghost of a lost age. And the name her mother had given her…meant nothing. She was Alarra Snow: The name her _father_ had given her. The name she armoured herself with, the name that at once meant a lack of honour, and freedom - to carve out her own fate.

She unsheathed Dark Sister, the light glinting off the impossibly sharp, smoky blade, rubies glowing.

_Dark Sister was wielded by a firstborn Targaryen daughter, older sister to a king…now it shall be again_…

Dark Sister had been forged for a woman-warrior, in the days before the Doom of Valyria, before the Targaryens had occupied the last Valyrian outpost, Dragonstone… A slender blade, expertly forged, exquisitely decorated, but lethal, thirsty for blood, wielded by warrior-queens and heroes…

A Valyrian steel sword, given to a ferocious warrior sister, to protect her brother-king.

She lowered her eyes to the Bloodraven. His ancient face was saddened.

Lord Rivers had gifted her Dark Sister, not just to protect Bran, she knew, or to help in their fight against White Walkers and their legions of the undead…

He had returned the blade to a true Targaryen. If they survived the dead, it fell to Larra to protect her brother, as Queen Visenya had Aegon, with this very blade.

The Bloodraven's face was sombre, but his eye glittered as he watched her swing Dark Sister from one hand, her wrist like water, practicing thrusts and parries to learn how she weighed in Larra's hands, the balance beautiful. The blade sang through the still air.

Father had allowed her to learn alongside Robb and Jon and Theon how to wield weapons: He'd told Ser Rodrick that wild girls had to learn to protect themselves. And those who could not wield a blade often died upon them: As a bastard, Larra had been allowed what Lady Catelyn refused Sansa and Arya - the right to defend themselves.

The Bloodraven's ancient face was alight with admiration and dread as he watched her, and he murmured, "Dark Sister looks as if she were forged for your hand by the gods themselves… She has been idle too long, and has a thirst for blood… May she bring you good fortune, in the wars to come."

* * *

**A.N.**: So I'm very happy that we all have fanfiction to burrow into for comfort after the disappointments of canon… Several things don't make sense in Season 8, and will be addressed (corrected) in this story: Jon telling _Daenerys_ before he even tells his sisters or Ser Davos - really?! She's that good in bed? You love her that much? After Ygritte, his 'romance' with Daenerys feels _soooo_ forced, and they lack onscreen chemistry (in my personal view). Also, _Jaime_… We had some exquisite Lannister-brother scenes, but I feel cheated out of a more satisfying end to Jaime's identity arc. Also, why couldn't we have had the sack of King's Landing from Gendry's perspective, rather than Arya's? They've completely under-utilised him, and I wish we saw more of a bond growing between him and Jon; just to see Gendry's reaction when he finds out Jon's father was actually Rhaegar, whom Robert killed!


	2. Hold the Door

**A.N.**: I still think Hodor's was one of the most tragic deaths in all of _Game of Thrones_. Also Maester Luwin; I continue to adore him. And Maester Aemon, the perfect example of what a true Targaryen should be (I'm looking at _you_, Queen of the Ashes).

I should probably add this is a TV-based fanfiction, rather than the books - although I will take some titbits and nuggets from the books, because the world-building is so rich.

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_02_

_Hold the Door!_

* * *

_Hold the door! Hold the door! Hold the door!_

_Holdedoor! Holdedoor! Holdedoor! _

_Holdoor! Holdoor! Holdoor!_

_Hodor! Hodor! Hodor!_

_Hodor… Hodor… Hodor…_

_Hodor…_

Hodor.


	3. White Winds

**A.N.**: So direwolves are supposed to be bigger and stronger than normal wolves, which are _huge_. I was watching a documentary on Alaskan winters and someone had huskies and a sled, and I had a lightbulb moment. I also like the philosophy that animals hunt for food; men, for pleasure. And wild things should be free.

I hope we can all agree that the final montage and the song 'The Last of the Starks' (like all of Ramin Djawadi's score) are insane! Oh, the _feels_.

I'd recommend watching _TheGaroStudios'_ video 'Jon Snow' on YouTube for anyone regretting S8's arc for his character: It's insanely good - and so much more satisfying than what we were given.

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_03_

_White Winds_

* * *

Even months and years later, she could never recall exactly how they made it to the haunted forest, two wraithlike girls laden with furs and weapons, dragging a sled and a broken boy on the cusp of manhood: Headfirst into the worst storm they had experienced in all their wanderings of the true North. The white winds had snatched at their furs and torn at their exposed skin, stinging where ice had frozen in the air, pelting them, the snow gentling each sting as flakes the size of daisies swirled around them, blinding them. They whispered against her skin like forbidden kisses.

All she could remember, after turning her back on her sweet giant, was that her eyelashes had frozen.

It took days to realise it was because she had been crying.

Hodor's fate battered her mind, attempting to turn it inside-out, and grief at Summer's sacrifice threatened to overwhelm her, aching for Last Shadow, sorrow for the last of the Children meeting their fates so valiantly, uselessly, to give them precious _time_, in a place where time had not existed for millennia, made her hollow - and angry. Grief and terror and _hope_ kept her moving.

Hope was the only thing more powerful than her dread.

In the snowstorm of the Night King's creation, they did not dare let go the harness lashing them to Bran's sled: To let go was to lose one another. And to fall behind was to be left behind: They could not afford to stop. They would never meet again: Unless it was on opposite sides of the inevitable war. The only war that mattered. The war for the dawn. For _life_.

When people asked her, years later, how they had escaped the Night King and his army of wights, her answer was simple, and confounding: _I put one foot in front of the other_.

There was no magic to it. There had been no miracles, no heroes but a simple-minded giant who held the door. Just her and Meera. And they had simply refused to give in: They marched, and they dragged Bran, his eyes still milky from visions, and they fought against the howling white winds and raging snows, not daring to look back and see how close the army of the dead was. In the snows, they couldn't even _smell_ the dead, and that was something. Meera had noticed the cold: Larra had noticed the _smell_.

They had each killed a White Walker, with weapons of obsidian: But they had paid for their escape with the lives of Hodor and Summer, Lord Bloodraven, Leaf, and the other Children. The last of their kind.

The wind almost knocked them off their feet, snatching at loose curls, slapping and slicing their exposed skin, and her bones ached to the marrow; her legs shook violently, and she was sure her feet bled. They were weak. Weaker than she had suspected.

Had the Night King been sated enough by the murder of the Three-Eyed Raven, by the Children, to not give chase? His generals were one thing: But Larra had looked the Night King in the face, and known she looked upon an ancient god from a forgotten age. A god of Death.

She could not defeat Death. She could only outrun it, for as long as she had strength in her body to put one foot in front of the other.

They weaved through the trees, the haunted forest echoing with howls and screams as the winds tore at barren branches, saplings groaning and creaking as they bowed in the gale, and Meera struggled, and lost her footing. The sled lurched, and Larra panted, tugging.

They hadn't stopped for hours; but the dawn would not come. The night…the night chased them…and its King had sent his soldiers after them. She dared not stop, dared not look back.

"We have to keep going!" she shouted, tugging sharply.

"I can't!"

"_You must_!"

Whimpering, devastated and exhausted, knowing that to stop was death, Meera struggled to her feet; they tugged at the sled, and freed it from a hidden gnarl of tree-roots. She saw the look on Meera's face just as they heard it: The first snarl, carried on the wind. They were sheltered from the worst of the elements amongst the trees, finally, blessedly sheltered, but even the woods would not stop the dead, any more than the shore could stop the sea.

"I'm sorry!" Meera cried, her face crumpling, as she panted and shook with exhaustion, guarding Bran with her body. His eyes were still milky-white, sightless - seeing _everything_.

_For how long?_

"Meera, take Bran and go!" she shouted over the wind.

"_What about you?_" Meera screamed, and her face fell, her eyes widening in horror as she gazed past Larra.

The dead. The sight of them sucked the breath from her lungs, and filled her with dread…but worse, worse than the decayed corpses wielding broken weapons, tearing ceaselessly through the storm…the lone White Walker. Not the King; one of his long-haired generals. Armoured and armed, his pace was slow and unyielding as a glacier, the wights all the more chaotic around him for his stillness.

"Meera…your bow," she wheezed, and Meera reached for it, nocking the first obsidian arrow.

They would die: But they would _fight_.

She refused to give in. From the moment the Ironborn took Winterfell, her sole purpose had been to survive: And to survive, because she had to protect her brothers. She lived for them. They gave her purpose. Protecting Bran was all she had: And she would fight to her death to protect him. With her last breath, she would defy anyone who attempted to harm him.

As the wights descended, she unsheathed her new sword to wield it in battle for the very first time. She was exhausted to her marrow, every muscle burning…but she had been trained for this. For exhaustion, and hunger, and desperation…

_Those without swords still die upon them_, Father had once told Ser Rodrick, who hadn't wanted to train a woman for war, bastard though she was. But she was a daughter of the North: They were made of tempered steel and unyielding ironstone.

Arrows whistled past, wights stopping in their tracks, but the White Walker strode on, his face ice-white and still, his blue eyes glowing in the half-light.

Dark Sister felt as if she had been forged for Larra alone, an extension of her arm, and the blade sang through the air. She killed one, two, another, and another - she fought for survival, her exhaustion forgotten, blood flowing through her veins like liquid fire, fierce and good. Her blood was up: It was all she had. The burning desire to fight - to _live_. It was all she had, and it was not enough, but she fought. As Meera emptied her quiver, Larra cut down more wights, keeping them at bay.

But there were too many.

Too many, and too fast. Unrelenting.

A White Walker before her eyes. She thought of Old Nan's stories. And then she fought, and no other thought entered her mind but anticipating the next strike, and avoiding each blow. She was too exhausted, too weak to block; but fear made her nimble.

Dark Sister came alive in her hands; her body moving as if without thought. The Children called it dancing.

She danced with a White Walker.

Larra heard the wights, heard Meera's bow singing, the crunch of shattering wights as dragonglass killed whatever magic animated them, she heard the winds howling, but it was the howling of a direwolf that cost her - almost everything.

The familiar howl of Last Shadow filled her with _strength_ \- with hope, with memories, with determination - fuelled by love - to _survive_; for half a second, she was distracted. A giant black direwolf leapt out of nowhere, over Bran, bundling into three wights advancing on him.

Last Shadow. She had _grown_ \- and she was not alone. More wolves appeared out of nowhere, leaping out of the snows at wights, tearing them to pieces, and someone astride a great black horse swung a flaming thurible on a long chain at any wight within range as the horse galloped around the trees.

But she lost focus, her arms shook with the impact of the blow she just blocked in time - she stumbled, overbalanced in the snowy terrain, and screamed as the Walker stabbed at her with his ice-white blade. _Seven hells!_

It was a scream of fury - and pain. Had he broken ribs? Her breath came so painfully, she thought so; she would be bruised.

But she was not dead. Not yet.

The White Walker showed no emotion, only lethal purpose. He was a sword in the storm.

She bared her teeth and screamed in fury as she clamped her arm down over the white blade still tangled in her furs, raising Dark Sister to use the flaming pommel and break the brittle ice-blade in half. She fell back as if to fade - and screamed as she leapt forwards, knocking his broken blade out of the way to plunge Dark Sister deep into his heart.

Larra looked into his glowing vivid-blue eyes and saw nothing. No emotion, no desire, no _life_. She did not smell a putrid corpse, as the stench of the wights made her eyes water even in the storm; only ice. _Cold_.

The sound of ice creaking and cracking seemed to quieten the storm raging around them; she heard every fissure as they appeared on his snow-white skin, bluish-silver and white, awing. She clenched her eyes shut as she fell to the ground, ice shattering, raining down around her as she landed heavily in the snow.

Panting, her side agony to her, she raised her head, fingers tight around Dark Sister's grip, wary for the next attack, and gasped, watching, stunned, as the wights dropped where they were, disintegrating, dust on the wind, rusted weapons dropping into the snow with piles of old bones and mouldy furs. For a second, she only stared, taking it all in: Then she realised. The wights had met their true death with the defeat of the White Walker who commanded them, had maybe created them.

Panting, she collapsed against the snow, turning onto her back, hissing in pain, staring dazedly into the endless grey-white sky, bare trees waving and groaning in the wind, snow flurries eddying around her. She blinked, and focused, and smiled humourlessly at the ravens clinging stubbornly to the branches. _Wherever there are wolves, there are ravens_, Maester Luwin used to tell her.

The shrouded man on horseback trotted over, the stench of his sweating horse acrid on the crisp air, looping the coils of his chain carefully, the thrurible extinguished. His voice tickled her memory when he said, "On your feet…the dead do not tire."

Last Shadow snuffled as she prowled over, bigger than Larra ever remembered, and gave Larra's ear a lick, tucking her nose under Larra's chin for a moment, whining softly, and Larra might have burst into tears of relief had she the energy.

"Shadow," she wheezed, and her dire-wolf, her companion and sister, chuffed softly. Intense heat roiled off her in waves, and the familiar, comforting scent of wolf swept memories of better times through Larra's mind. She knotted her fingers in Shadow's impossibly thick jet fur, and the enormous direwolf gently pulled her to her feet. Her legs shook violently, her arms felt like dead weights, bruised from the impact of fighting the White Walker, and her side protested, in absolute agony…but she was alive.

And Meera was alive. And Brandon was alive.

Meera was hurriedly gathering as many arrows as she could reclaim from the fallen wights, already disintegrating in the vicious winds; Shadow guided Larra to the sled, to Bran, whose eyes were dark once more. He stared at her unblinkingly, simply reaching to lift the harness Larra had fashioned under the weirwood, fastened to the sled. She had fit it to Summer. She had designed the sled, crafted from dead weirwood branches, so that Bran could skim across the snow and ice in comfort, using reins to guide Summer, who had been large enough to draw the sled like horses did wagons. It was supposed to ensure that Bran had a means of transportation he was not completely reliant on other people for; but there was capacity for someone to stand behind, and take the reins. They hadn't time to test the harness and the sled together.

Last Shadow padded in front of the sled; Larra sheathed Dark Sister before securing the harness around her direwolf. There was no blood on the blade; no indication at all she had slain a White Walker, a monster from legend. Shadow stood still, waiting patiently, as Larra adjusted the harness: Summer had been smaller than his sister, and Larra fastened the buckles with stiff, bruised fingers. Meera helped her right the sled, Bran jostled inside his furs, and Larra wondered, fleetingly, whether Bran had called the wolves to him. He was a skinchanger, far stronger than Larra - she could change skins with wolves, but wouldn't dare try and see through another man's eyes; the Children had taught her, making her practice every day. Skinchanging left Bran's body vulnerable while he inhabited an animal's skin: It left his mind vulnerable to the death of his host. It was a dangerous and erratic power; Larra didn't trust it.

The shrouded man called to them, but the sound was lost on the wind; as Larra stepped on the footboards, he helped Meera onto his horse, and started galloping away. South. Always south now.

They couldn't have outrun the dead without Shadow, without the mounted stranger.

But they did. Somehow, they did.

Theon Greyjoy used to talk about sailing. Odd that she thought about him then, after everything: She had only thought about Theon in anger ever since he took Winterfell, took her brothers' home from them, betrayed Robb's trust. Theon used to talk about the sea. Pyke. The Ironborn; piracy. _Freedom_. She imagined sailing the high seas felt a lot like skimming across the oceans of snow and ice at high speed, exhilarating and _fast_, breathless - and a little painful, trepidation niggling at the pit of her stomach as she held on to the handle-bar and gritted her teeth against the cries of pain that threatened to burst from her, the snow and ice biting her face, her legs like fresh-forged lead, still burning. The White Walker hadn't killed her, but she knew her own body: He had done her some damage, in the act of stabbing at her, if not actually skewering her.

She clung onto the sled, not daring relax her grip, and focused on nothing but Bran, and Meera, and their cloaked companion - and their honour-guard of direwolves.

Last Shadow had found a _pack_. At least twenty direwolves, of different colours and sizes, different ages. Even a couple of pups, close to their mother. Impossibly, she remembered Shadow that small, gangly and excitable, loping through the snow. And Shadow was in her element now, in the true North, amongst a pack. The direwolves formed a protective ring around them, guarding them on all sides, the more vulnerable wolves inside the circle, next to the sled and the horse that was unfazed by their nearness. To see a true wolf-pack in nature, in its element, embracing them as their own, vulnerable pups to be protected…it was extraordinary.

With the cloaked stranger on horseback, and Shadow pulling the sled, they covered a great distance at speed. She wondered how Shadow had known where she was…whether she had called to her across so great a distance, whether their bond truly was as strong as she had always believed. The Children had been teaching her, strengthening her warg abilities…like a muscle, the more she used it, the stronger it became, though without Shadow she had tried to strengthen her bond with Summer. Sometimes she dreamed through Shadow's eyes; the Children had encouraged it.

They put as much distance between them and the dead as the animals could provide; but even direwolves tired eventually, especially when they were hungry, and the cloaked stranger's horse was not a Dornish stallion, bred for stamina.

Eventually, they had to decide to stop, to rest. They all needed it; and the wolves took opportunity to hunt what little could be found in the snows. Sheltered by trees, the cloaked stranger had found them a derelict hut, erected by wildlings and abandoned - possibly they were with Mance Rayder, or perhaps they fought for the Night King. Either way, the empty home was a haven: It shielded them, for a few precious hours, from the perils of a night that was getting steadily more dangerous, a night that refused to end. They enjoyed a couple of hours of daylight, and that was their lot: They could not get South soon enough.

Every muscle in her body wound so tight she feared they might snap her bones, Larra inched off the footboards of the sled. She had thought she knew what pain was: She had been educated in their flight from the Night King. It was all she could do to keep hold of the handle-bar, and the reins, to keep herself upright. Her face felt as if it had been flayed by the snow and ice, and if she kept her nose, she would be surprised - and grateful. Meera grimaced in pain as she dismounted, with the cloaked stranger's help: It had been a long time since either of them had ridden. Together, they manoeuvred the sled into the shelter, and Meera groaned as she sank onto the snow-strewn ground, where pine-needles had once formed a carpet, instead of rushes. Precariously, Larra leaned against the wall of the shelter; she could no more bend her legs to sprawl on the ground as Meera had than she could perform twenty cartwheels for her amusement. Inch by inch, knowing she would pay for it when they started off again, she let her muscles relax, slowly, agonisingly.

In the time it took to sit on the ground with her legs outstretched and shaking, gripping her side and fearful of examining herself for injury, her mind slowly settling from the anxiousness that had plagued her since smelling the dead in the Children's caves, the wolves had disappeared…and returned, only a few hours later, herding a young, frightened elk. A gift. The gift of food; the gift of _life_.

They left the kill for the cloaked stranger - and waited patiently, prowling around the shelter like guards, lifting their noses to the wind, communicating constantly: The little pups had to be kept in line by the older ones, and Larra took the time to watch them, learning each of the direwolves, and Last Shadow amongst them. She was among the largest and strongest of the direwolves; there were others, a russet-coloured one that made Larra's stomach hurt, thinking of Robb the last time she had seen him, with snow melting in his auburn hair, bearded, a man before his time, off to war…

It was the cloaked stranger who handled the elk, carving meat for them to roast over a spit, enough for a meal and enough to tuck into the sled for later; packed with snow, it would not spoil for a while.

When he had taken their cut, the wolves set in; and Larra watched the social structure of the pack, the family of direwolves Last Shadow had been adopted into. Born one of seven pups to a dead mother, Last Shadow's eyes had already been open, she had been fending for her little-brother Ghost, an albino rejected by the others… Now she was enormous, larger than a pony and elegant, ferocious - wily. She always had been the canniest of the direwolves. Lady had been gentle; Grey Wind was unsettling in his swiftness and purpose, clever; Ghost was quiet and unnerving as his name implied, but ferocious and deeply loyal to Jon; Nymeria had Arya's mixture of impishness and danger; Summer had been intuitive; and Shaggydog was the wildest, the untamed wolf, the feral monster men feared - with good reason. But Last Shadow…she had grown up in the wilds of the wolfswood, hunting by Larra's side, or protecting the babies - she had put Shaggydog in his place, and from the very beginning had nurtured her siblings, bringing Ghost food, licking Summer's muzzle as he cried for broken Bran.

But she had never been at home at Winterfell, the same way Larra had known she was not truly wanted, was despised and even dreaded by her father's wife - she feared Jon might steal Robb's inheritance of the North, did her level best to place a wedge between her lawful children and her husband's bastards… _Look at us now_, Larra thought, not for the first time: There was no difference to them, now. They had no home, no lands, no titles. Just their lives, and it was their lives that mattered to her. She wondered what Catelyn Tully would think, her precious boys left in the care of her husband's bastard daughter… That the bastard she despised had kept her sons safe where her husband's bannermen with all their armies had failed to.

She watched Last Shadow: Now, she took precedent. The smaller wolves waited, quivering with anticipation, but it was Last Shadow, the largest female, black as night and as dangerous, who fed from the elk first, with the hulking male, a grey and cream male with piercing amber eyes and scars on his muzzle, the size of her favourite mare… As the meat cooked over a small fire, and the smell roused a dozing Meera as nothing else in this world might, Larra watched the wolves… Even in the storm, even as the night grew longer, they lived… They hunted, and they fed, and they thrived, and she couldn't help wonder whether any of the young pups in the pack were Last Shadow's. She didn't know how long they had lingered beneath the weirwood, just that Bran had become a man while they were there.

There were a few jet-black pups with amber and snow-blue eyes, one of which was bold enough to lift its nose their way, and pounce on her boot, playful as she remembered Last Shadow being, delighted to find a sister, a friend. The russet-coloured wolf Larra had seen before, an elegant female with piercing eyes, prowled closer, its muzzle red with blood, watching Larra shrewdly, before batting at the pup with her paw, nudging the pup back toward the elk, and their dinner. The she-wolf stared at Larra, steaming in the cold, eyes piercing, cunning; she raised her muzzle to scent the air, scent them, and Larra remained still as the strange direwolf inched closer, finally scenting and licking her face, lowering her nose to sniff and scent her furs. The elk-blood had frozen in her fur but her rough tongue was hot as she licked Larra's aching face.

The she-wolf cocked her head at Bran thoughtfully, scented Meera, and loped back over to the elk to growl at one of the larger pups so the little ones could sneak up and tear some meat away. The direwolves weren't going to leave anything of the carcass, not this far North, not in these winter storms.

The cloaked stranger pulled his knife, and started to carve the cooked meat from the spit. Succulent, dripping with fat, the juicy meat had Larra's mouth watering.

The stranger crouched in front of her, the hood pulled low over his eyes, to offer her the meat.

"That Walker's blade should've skewered you." That voice again, rich and mournful and understated - she knew it; she _knew_ she knew it. She just couldn't place it. Memories flirted with her bone-deep tiredness in the back of her mind: She wriggled in her furs, and finally got free of them, just long enough to show the stranger what she wore beneath: A chain-mail vest made entirely of obsidian. Tiny rings, thousands of them, hand-carved, smooth and beautiful, sewn on to a vest of bear-hide using direwolf hairs - _Summer's_ shed hairs.

In the little hut, the vest shimmered and came alive in the firelight - as if she was wearing dragonscales…

She caught Meera's eye, and hurriedly bundled herself back under her furs, Bran's revelation about her parentage still too fresh, too painful a wound.

The stranger laughed.

It was more of a _chuff_, something soft and wild, unpractised - something _wolflike_.

Larra looked up sharply, into the stranger's hooded eyes.

"_Uncle Benjen_!"

* * *

**A.N.**: Who else is seriously in love with Benjen Stark? Ned and Benjen are possibly the most epic, honourable, self-sacrificing men in Westeros, if not the world: And Jon is the very best of them. I'm convinced Benjen knew about Lyanna's love-affair with Rhaegar/eloping with him. He wouldn't have been very old, if Lyanna was sixteen when she ran off with Rhaegar like in the books, but it seems like Benjen and Lyanna were very close as children, after Ned was fostered at the Eyrie. I'll bet he knew exactly who Jon was when Ned brought a baby back from Dorne, with Lyanna's bones.


	4. Lost

**A.N.**: So I know the Virgin Queen imagery was strong during Sansa's coronation (which I _LOVED_) but I'm thinking…in my story, do I want Sansa to be Virgin Queen-esque, for her kingdom to be inherited, say, by her niece/nephew after a long and legendary reign? Or do I want her to find someone 'brave and gentle and strong', a ferocious feminist who respects her strength, to father her children, and marry her, for a little while (I'm giving you a huge hint here)? What do you think? Have Sansa foster her heir, the child of Jon or Larra, or have her own children?

I was really thirsting after Pod when I started this story, but now I'm wondering about the political implications to the story…I may have to consider another option…

I've also changed Larra's 'Targaryen' birth-name to Aella.

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_04_

_Lost_

* * *

Her aches and pains were forgotten as she flung herself at her uncle. _Benjen_.

The last time they had embraced, he had arrived late after a hard day's ride, flying down from the Wall: Grim Benjen with his long face and handsome nose, his rich solemn voice, her heroic uncle who had committed his life to a cause greater than his own, a ranger and hardy warrior.

Their hero - hers, and Jon's.

A rare visitor at Winterfell who had always treated them with kindness and respect: They had admired him with something close to idolatry, anticipated his visits, and regretted his return to the Wall, to the true North, ranging in the unknowable wilderness, back then only shaped in their minds by Old Nan's stories - and Benjen's… He had left out some crucial details…

Jon had followed their uncle's footsteps to the Wall, and beyond it; Larra had been bitterly heartbroken to be left behind, with no place in the world, left to look after her brothers - little had she known, then, that she too would follow in her uncle's footsteps, trudging all the way to the Wall and beyond it, dragging her stubborn, crippled brother.

Uncle Benjen.

He had been thought lost, lost beyond the Wall, lost to the true North, with no word, like so many hundreds of thousands of nameless, forgotten men who took the black, highborn and low alike lost to the ravaging blizzards of time and memory. Their pain, unknown, their sacrifice, unrewarded, ignored. Futile.

She had seen the true enemy. The winter of her family's warning. The entirety of Westeros knew it: Starks were always right in the end._ Winter is coming_, indeed.

They had endured the winter, and survived: But it chased at their heels like starving direwolves. They were an impossibility - two waiflike girls and a crippled boy, somehow they had survived the true North and its most horrific dangers - besides the dead, and the generals of the army of the night, chasms and glaciers and hidden fissures, mangy snowcats and the worst of the Free Folk… And here, another impossibility: Uncle Benjen, _alive_.

Or close enough to it.

She squeezed Benjen with her tired, thin body, as tight as she could, her heart breaking. _Uncle Benjen_. He didn't expect it; she wondered when he had last been embraced, by anyone, because he froze…and thawed, tucking his arms around, strong as tempered steel.

Slowly, almost as if he were ashamed, Benjen lowered his head, raising his blackened, heavy hands to drop his hood, and carefully unwound the cowl around his face, revealing high cheeks savaged by frostbite, dark eyes shadowed with grief, lips blue and cracked. His skin was paler than snow, with an unhealthy greenish-grey tint that might have reminded her of the Children…if she wasn't acquainted with rotting bodies, disintegrating skin…

Uncle Benjen was not dead…but he was not truly alive, either. Much as she and Meera and Bran and Hodor had been for however long they lingered beneath the great heart-tree. Halfway between death and life. They were closer to life than Uncle Benjen, she could _see_ it…

Sadness filled her, replacing everything else.

Benjen was _altered_.

She glanced at her brother. Bran. The last time they had seen Benjen, the King had arrived at Winterfell to ask their father to become Hand of the King…had divided their family irrevocably. Benjen had flown down from the Wall, and taken Jon back with him. Father had taken their sisters south… Larra had been left behind, with three brothers - one overwhelmed, one wounded, and one wild… Larra had been a wild girl herself, her back a tangle of ruby ribbons from Queen Cersei, half-feral and furious; Bran had been a tiny broken boy, sweet-faced, kind and full of warmth. She remembered that boy…in this desolate place, Benjen must remember them so vividly it hurt; she knew her own memories shone as vibrantly as any of her paintings in comparison to the barren icy wastes of the North.

If Benjen had changed, so had they.

She wondered if it hurt. If looking at them hurt, the same way looking at Benjen hurt - and the cramping worry deep in her belly, the slow dull ache that strengthened as she thought of Jon. Jon, fighting wildings in the rain by the abandoned windmill; Jon, outside the keep of wailing women… Why had he been wearing a wildling's furs at the tower, only to be back in black at the keep?

Did he know Benjen was still beyond the Wall?

Had _Bran_ known?

Bran's eyes were dark, and they lingered curiously on Benjen's frostbitten face.

But Benjen's eyes lingered on Larra. He looked at her…the way she always remembered, whenever he visited Winterfell…as if it was the first and last time he would ever see her face, and had never seen anything he wanted to gaze upon more than her face…

She realised…in her face, he saw his _sister_. The sister he had lost, the sibling he had been closest to. Lyanna.

His sister. Her _mother_.

Their secret.

Ned's, and her mother's, and perhaps Uncle Benjen's, too.

Benjen had been barely Bran's age when the Rebellion began - Lyanna, only sixteen when she had died…giving birth to her twin children raised at Winterfell as her brother's bastards…

Benjen had not been wearing the black then. He had been…the Stark in Winterfell. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell_...

Benjen had been the Stark in Winterfell when Father returned from the Rebellion with twin babies… Lyanna's babies…

Every time he flew down from the Wall, Benjen sought out Jon and Larra. He always had a smile for her, _always_. He had always, from her earliest memory, held her face tenderly in his large, scarred hands, learning every curve and plane of her face.

She wondered how alike she was to her mother…her _mother_…

Benjen was the only person living who could tell her anything about her mother…and her _father_…

It explained why he had always been so kind to them, eager to learn even the most mundane details of their lives, smiling at Larra's paintings and embroidery and her bow, sparring with them in the yard - a seasoned Ranger of the Night's Watch playing with sparring-swords! Patient and implacable, that was her memory of Benjen, solemn as Father and kind, as troubled by his responsibilities to the Watch as Father was by his to the North…

If Benjen looked at her and saw Lyanna, then Larra looked at Benjen and saw Jon. Saw _Father_. It hurt, worse than any hunger. She was too exhausted to weep, but inside, she was in agony.

She disentangled herself from her uncle, stepping back, eyes burning as she gazed at him, overwhelmed by the memories that swept through her, searing like wildfire, warming her from the inside out.

"The last letter Jon wrote us said you'd been lost beyond the Wall," said Bran, in his new soft, careful voice. She remembered his easy laughter and quick chatter like a squirrel, teasing Arya and cooing to baby Rickon, talking with Summer before he had been named, before Bran had fallen…

That little boy was gone: So was the brooding, isolated young man Larra remembered as her twin: And this was not Uncle Benjen who visited Winterfell.

This was the First Ranger of the Night's Watch.

Grief and remorse flickered across Benjen's face, his jaw working as he fiddled clumsily with his gloves.

After a moment, he spoke hesitantly, his voice soft as Bran's but a thousand times more sorrowful. "I led a ranging party, deep into the North, to find White Walkers… _They_ found _us_. A White Walker stabbed me in the gut with a sword of ice…left me there to die, to turn… The Children found me, stopped the Walkers' magic from taking hold."

"How?" Meera breathed, gazing at Benjen with eyes glinting wetly in the firelight.

"The same way they made the Walkers in the first place," Benjen sighed, turning his sharp dark eyes on Bran. "You saw it yourself."

"Dragonglass," Bran said, shifting awkwardly in his sled, his expression pinched. "A shard of dragonglass, plunged into your heart."

They stared at Benjen, at his chest, buried beneath layers of wool and matted fur. The Children were likely gone from their world forever, but here a relic remained, an echo of their last act, lingering in the world, continuing their work.

"Why did they save you?" Meera asked, her face haunted, remembering Jojen. Jojen, whom they had abandoned, whose own sister had delivered him mercy in the snows as wights descended upon him, Jojen, whom the Children could not - would not - save, not when Bran's life was at risk as they fought to protect Jojen. Bran, the Three-Eyed Raven. The Children had not saved Jojen, but they had found Benjen dying in the snows far from the great heart-tree…

Benjen glanced at Larra. "To the Children, it was but yesterday they united with the First Men to stop the White Walkers…it was Brandon who raised the Wall, who built Winterfell, and it is his blood that runs through our veins," Benjen murmured; every Northman grew up on tales of Bran the Builder, high-borns and bastards alike. "Brandon wielded the magic of the Children to reinforce the Wall, to stop any White Walker or soldier they created from passing into the world of Men."

"The Children are gone," Larra murmured, Leif's sacrifice still too fresh a wound. She had spent months, years, training with Leif, with the Children, learning to dance as they did with their weapons of weirwood and dragonglass, learning their songs.

"But their songs are not," Benjen said, gazing meaningfully at Larra. "And magic is not gone from this world."

"But - _oh_," Larra breathed, staring at her uncle, her tired eyes widening with realisation. The Children had taught her their songs - their _spells_, their magic…

All magic was gone from the world…except dragons.

And those who rode them.

_Valyrians_.

An ancient race of Men whose blood was steeped in magic - kept pure for centuries in the very last of them, by the incestuous marriages of the Targaryen dynasty, wedding brother to sister for centuries to preserve the purity of their blood…their _magical_ blood…

Blood that ran through Larra's veins - and Jon's…

They were the last of them.

The last of the Targaryens.

The last of an ancient race with _magic_ flowing in her veins…a Targaryen with the blood of the First Men, the blood of Bran the Builder, who had wielded the magic of the Children against the Night King…

Leif had told her that strong magic protected Winterfell, magic that was lost to the world…except to her. And Jon.

They were children of the North, of ancient Valyria.

They were children of ice and fire.

And the _song_… The songs the Children had taught her, they were not just songs…they were _spells_, the magic of the Children, preserved in Larra's memory, just as the history of the world was preserved in Bran…

Bran was knowledge, now, living memory in a man's form… But Larra and Jon…they were _magic_ made flesh…

The Three-Eyed Raven had tutored Bran… The Bloodraven was gone: But the Three-Eyed Raven lived on. Just as there was always a king, there was always a Three-Eyed Raven. No sooner had one breathed its last than the next took a gasp and plunged on.

The Children were gone - but they had passed on their knowledge to Larra the only way they knew how - in song.

Leif had made Larra memorise one particular song… She had called it Larra's song…she had called it _a song of ice and fire_…

Confronted with the horror that was the Night King and his army, it was an oddly comforting thought, realising that it was not only Bran that the Three-Eyed Raven and the Children wanted to get safely North to the great weirwood.

They had needed Larra, too.

Her time had not been wasted, deep beneath the tree.

She had been waiting, and watching, but she had also been learning - without ever knowing the significance of what she had learned, until now.

The Children were gone; but they had left their last, best hope for the future of Man with Larra…

With her, and with Jon. The same blood ran through his veins as hers. Northman, Valyrian: Stark, Targaryen.

Bran the Builder had stopped the Night King once.

They would again, for the last time.

They had to: There was no other option. How could they let him cover all the world in shadow?

Benjen nodded slowly, knowing she had understood him. He turned to Brandon, the last Stark child named for their legendary ancestor.

"You are the Three-Eyed Raven now," Benjen sighed sadly. "You must help Larra and Jon, in every way you can. The three of you…you are all the world of Man has left."

"I didn't have time to learn, I can't control anything!" Bran said plaintively, and there was something like amusement and sorrow glinting in Benjen's dark eyes.

"You must learn to. Before the Night King comes," Benjen told him gently. "One way or another, he will find his way into the world of Men. And when he does, you three shall be there, waiting for him. And you will be ready…" His eyes lingered on Larra, and in the firelight they glinted like a raven's. "You must be. You know what the Night King wants?"

"The end of all things," Larra spoke softly, her voice almost lost to the wind. Benjen nodded slowly.

"He intends to undo this world, the world of Men."

"But I don't understand…he _was_ a man, once," Meera said, glancing at Bran for confirmation.

"The Children made him…" Benjen said sadly, his eyes lingering on Bran. "Only the Three-Eyed Raven had the knowledge to _un_make him. Until you." He glanced from Brandon to Larra. "Three-Eyed Ravens throughout history have waited and watched, ensured that you found your way to the heart-tree."

"Me?" She glanced at Brandon, whose eyes were as solemn as they had been when the Bloodraven had told her the truth of her parentage.

"Targaryens have always had dragon-dreams…the Sight, borne of the magic in their blood," Benjen sighed softly. "Centuries ago, the Three-Eyed Raven gave Daenys the Dreamer a glimpse of the world as it would become…"

"Daenys the Dreamer? She was _centuries_ before the Conquest," Larra whispered, remembering her histories. How many times had she read the stories to Arya? Stories…legends… People lost to the ravages of time…her _ancestors_…

"Twenty generations of Targaryens ago," Brandon said thoughtfully. "Your direct ancestor… That explains your dreams." Larra glanced sharply at Brandon. She had never told Bran about her dreams - only Jon, and Father, who had instructed Maester Luwin to teach her how to paint, and purge the horrific and exquisite images from her mind…

"The Three-Eyed Raven ensured the Targaryens sailed to Dragonstone, the last annex of the Valyrian Freehold," Benjen said. "Barely more than a decade after they made berth on Dragonstone, Valyria was lost to the Doom… Generations later, Aegon turned his eyes westward…a dynasty was forged in fire and blood…as it ended…and two tiny dragons were secreted away deep in Snow, until they were old and strong enough…" The tiny quirk of Benjen's lip was tragically ironic; he sounded far too lyrical not to be quoting someone - he sounded like Lord Bloodraven.

"Are we?" Larra asked her uncle.

Benjen's smile was awful.

"You must be."

They rested for only as long as the fire lasted. Bodies screaming their protest, Larra took to the sled while Meera climbed behind Benjen on the horse; their honour-guard of direwolves escorted them, ever southwards, fighting the storm. Brandon indicated by signals each time they needed to alter their course: He had ravens spying out the Night King's armies, knew when to evade and when to wait.

If it took days, Larra could not recall how many. They travelled in silence, but for Bran's directions and the grumblings of hungry direwolves, the boldest and best hunters disappearing, to return herding their rare prey for Benjen to butcher and prepare for them, wherever they could find some brief respite from the elements. The little red direwolf became bolder, a favourite, loping beside Larra and the sled, a constant companion.

Bran watched the snowy sky unseeingly, his eyes milky, nestled in his furs as they slipped over the snow, following Benjen's sure-footed horse. He was learning, _preparing_. Doing what he should still have been doing beneath the weirwood, had he not been so foolhardy… Had he not been so desperate to see their family again. Larra could not blame him, not entirely: He had seen her mother, after all…he saw them all. She wondered what he saw, whether he knew Sansa and Arya's fates, if Rickon and Osha had reached the Umbers, and how Robb's war was waging.

But she did not ask. Likely, Bran was not looking for their family: He had work to do. And he was no longer only Bran Stark: He was the Three-Eyed Raven.

The Bloodraven had told Larra, early on, that the man was lost to the myth: Bran would lose himself, for a good long while, as he learned his powers and indulged in them, and as time passed, he might forget where he belonged in the story… But he had every reason to fight his way back: They needed him. Not just his family…everyone. The world of Men needed Bran. He could not indulge in the past.

They headed South, toward the Wall…they were headed _home_.

Where else could they go?

Winterfell.

It made her stomach ache and her blood simmer with anger to think of her home, now, mired with so many hateful, pain-drenched memories, the ghosts of people she had loved, and left behind - the ones who had left _her_ behind…

She had wondered very often what had become of Winterfell, of the smallfolk who had made it their home for generations; she wondered whether Winter Town was filling up, as it only ever did when the snows fell dozens of feet thick upon the moors. She could barely remember the last winter; Brandon had been the first of her siblings born in summer, it was all he had ever known until they breached the Wall and headed north toward the Land of Always Winter. But she remembered snow up to the ramparts, the dull hacking and creaking of the trees always planted in spring being felled, for winter firewood; she remembered a haze of smoke lingering above Winter Town like a blanket, firelight glinting like jewels in the grey winter days. She remembered cuddling with her Father, and sharing the great box-bed with Jon and Robb when they were so little it hadn't mattered, long before Rickon and Brandon, long before Theon had ever come to Winterfell…

The last time she had seen the great grove of weirwoods, Brandon had still been her brother, a hungry, irritable boy frustrated by his broken body while his active mind tormented him with visions and portents.

Whether by nature's magic or by the Children themselves, the weirwoods had grown in a perfect spiralling circle, and in their centre, the heart-tree, its carved face weeping ruby sap. In the gale, the boughs of the tree seemed to groan a lament to the Three-Eyed Raven they had lost, the leaves like bloody hand-prints whispering a sigh, greeting the new one.

It was this grove, in front of this very heart-tree, that Jon had sworn his oath to the Night's Watch.

They were close to the Wall, now - so close, Larra had been shocked when it suddenly appeared, in a break in the storm, the snows gentling just long enough to see the glimmering blue-white curtain cutting across the silver sky, imposing and awing.

They were so close to the Wall, they seemed to momentarily lose their dread of the storm chasing them. Meera climbed down off the horse, stretching her legs and groaning, plucking at the strings of her bow with chilled, stiff fingers. There were two snow-hares tucked into her belt, barely a speck of blood on their pristine fur: Meera caught Larra's eye, and they exchanged the briefest of looks before Meera started to dig a small pit to protect a fire, starting to prepare the rabbits for skinning. Larra stepped gratefully from the sled, taking a risk by unbuckling Shadow from the harness; they were both relieved, and Shadow shook herself thoroughly, padding off to the other direwolves as Larra turned to her uncle. He had climbed off his horse, and gazed sorrowfully at the Wall as the fog and snow cleared, giving them tempting glimpses.

Jon was beyond that absurd structure.

It was all that now protected them from the storm chasing at their heels.

She hoped it held.

The snow crunched softly beneath her feet, and the wind seemed to drop as she approached her uncle, leaving everything in breathless silence.

It didn't matter, truly, not now, but she couldn't help ask something that had been on the tip of her tongue since she had learned the truth.

"Did you know, all this time?" she asked softly. Benjen sighed, gazing sorrowfully at the Wall. It wasn't weeping today, as it had the days when she had approached it from the south with Jojen and Hodor and Meera and Summer: It looked glassy and impossibly solid, unyielding. Uninviting - she wondered how the Free Folk felt when they looked upon it. She knew some climbed over it, so desperate were they to escape the Night King's hordes…any life was better than that fate, even a life on their knees.

His dark eyes rested on her face, and Larra knew, before he ever said a word. "When we were children, I was as close with Lyanna as you were with Jon and Arya. I might've even been her favourite… We used to spar together in the godswood, though Father didn't like Lyanna to wield weapons… She was very good." His eyes twinkled as he gazed at Larra, at the pommel of Dark Sister glinting in the meagre winter light. "Harrenhall was the first time we had ever seen royalty, the famous Prince of Dragonstone… He was _otherworldly_. We read about them in our histories but to _see_ a Targaryen, one of the Valyrians of legend, with his indigo eyes and his pale silver-gold hair… He was handsome, and frustrated - I remember thinking, he seemed to be wearing a mask to conceal his anger, as Brandon - _my_ brother Brandon…as Brandon so often did, his smile carved in a handsome face as if he were made of stone."

Sometimes Father had spoken of the Rebellion - especially to her brothers, when they had been young enough to still glorify war and slept, dreaming of themselves as heroes listed alongside the likes of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and Ser Barristan the Bold… But she had never heard Benjen speak of it - he had been the Stark in Winterfell, after all, his father and brother - Brandon - murdered by the Mad King: But he had grown up with Lyanna at Winterfell while Father fostered at the Eyrie…

It seemed important not to interrupt, but Larra couldn't help wonder: Rumour had spread, after the Rebellion, that Rhaegar had secretly funded Lord Whent's tourney at Harrenhall, hoping to amass the high lords of Westeros to settle the matter of his father's madness - and, perhaps, a regency. King Aerys had caught a whisper of sedition and insisted on attending the tourney: And history had been made. Instead of a regency to curb the Mad King's tyranny, Rhaegar had been diverted by a dark-haired, wild beauty from the North, sparking an ember that became a blaze of wildfire, setting alight a dynasty. One way or the other, the Mad King had been dethroned, but Larra couldn't help think, thousands of lives would not have been wasted had Rhaegar simply forged ahead, and taken direct rule from his father, and lived up to the potential everyone, decades later, was still bemoaning he never lived up to.

Lord Whent, Rhaegar, Aerys, Elia, Lyanna… _What a bloody mess_.

"Ned teased her for weeping when Prince Rhaegar sang… He had a handsome voice. I couldn't help but see him, when you stood in front of the feasters to sing before King Robert. You have the same gift…he mesmerised everyone, even those who had no time for songs… I laughed when Lyanna upturned her wine over Ned's head… She hummed Rhaegar's song for months, after - I don't think she even knew she was doing it… When the squires attacked Howland Reed, Lyanna had the idea to put them in their places; I helped her piece together a suit of armour from bits and pieces we found around the Northern lords' camp outside Harrenhall…I cheered my sister on when the Knight of the Laughing Tree championed in the lists… Only Ned and I knew who it was, of course. That night after the feast, Lyanna seemed…thrilled, excited, more vibrant than I had ever seen her…she whispered to me that Prince Rhaegar had found her out. I'd heard about the Mad King; I worried she'd be burned alive before the melee next-morning… Rhaegar told his father that they'd found the mystery-knight's shield, nothing more… Snow was starting to fall as we walked to our tents, everyone complaining of the cold - her laughter echoed through the camp; it was like a summer's day to us, so used to _real_ winters… I still remember the snow melting in her braids, threaded with tiny white day-bells to match her silver-grey velvet gown… They'd spoken for hours, Lyanna told me, her and Rhaegar, nestled away in the overgrown godswood… They spoke long enough to fall in love…

"The next morning, a squire found me, and asked me whether Lyanna had a favourite flower; I told him it was the winter rose… Lyanna had always admired them: Striking because of their simplicity, and unyielding. They endured the harshest winters, buried beneath the snows, and came back time and again… I remember you braiding them into your hair as she used to, for feasts… When Rhaegar crowned Lyanna his Queen of Love and Beauty, the roses were still crisp with frost, they seemed to glimmer like crushed glass… She wove those flowers into her hair for days before the blooms withered…we had returned to Winterfell by then, and the first of Rhaegar's letters arrived. By rider - _never_ by raven; and delivered right into Lyanna's hand - they would wait for her in the godswood…"

"He sent _letters_ to my mother?" Lyanna breathed, something fluttering in her chest. "What happened to them?" Benjen glanced at her, his eyes so cunning.

"When she ran away to meet Rhaegar at Harrenhall, she took the letters with her," he said, wincing apologetically, as Larra's heart sank. "She didn't want Father to think less of her."

"_Less_ of her?!"

"Rhaegar was still married to Elia Martell, after all; and Lyanna was betrothed to Robert, though she had no fondness for him," Benjen sighed, and Larra noticed that his breath didn't fog in front of him as hers did.

"But…Bran saw them married by the High Septon, in front of a heart-tree," Lyanna frowned. "Did she suspect Rhaegar might not wed her?"

In all her life, she could not recall a single occasion when her father had ever spoken poorly of Prince Rhaegar, not _ever_…because he was her father. Hers, and Jon's. Ned's _brother_ by the laws of Men and gods, though no-one knew it.

"In spite of what others have believed since the Rebellion, Rhaegar _was_ a man of honour," Benjen said, his expression solemn; and it said a lot, that Benjen Stark had said it. As if Ned Stark himself was reassuring Larra that her father by blood had been as good a man as Ned himself, who was the very best of them. She knew it, in her heart: Ned was irrefutably the bravest, most loyal, most honourable man she would ever know. And that was a devastating thought.

"But he wrecked everything."

"Coaxing Lyanna to run away was ill-advised, perhaps…but Lyanna knew our father: He was stubborn as an aurochs, and had already pledged her hand to the Lord of Storm's End, though everyone knew Robert had already fathered a bastard, and we all suspected he would never be loyal to her."

"Your father wouldn't yield even to the heir of the Iron Throne?" Benjen's eyes lit up with irony, his smile brief but almost impish.

"You know Northmen better than to have to ask that," he chuckled. "No, it was foolish of them to act in secrecy: But it was Brandon - my brother Brandon - who ruined whatever future Lyanna and Rhaegar had planned…a rider appeared, perhaps he had even crossed paths with Brandon and his friends on their way to King's Landing - asking Father for his blessing, and his support. Rhaegar couldn't trust the Southern lords, not with the King's Master of Whisperers - but the Northmen are a different breed, and Rhaegar knew it. They are loyal to their own; and they respect a strong woman who takes control of her fate… Rhaegar and Lyanna both hoped Father would unite the North behind Rhaegar's claim as Regent for his father; they wrote that Elia Martell would be retired to Dorne for her health, her children dividing their time between Sunspear and King's Landing, while Rhaegar and Lyanna began their family…"

"They wrote your father about this?" Larra asked, marvelling. "He _knew_ they were wed?"

"The rider delivered the letter into my father's hand, bearing the seals of Rhaegar - _and_ of Lyanna… She had joined the Stark direwolf in a single ouroboros with a dragon, a winter rose inside it with her initials… He'd had the wax seal made for her before they met at Harrenhall… _Princess of Dragonstone_, she had signed the letter… Brandon only heard that Lyanna had disappeared with Rhaegar and flew into one of his rages; I'd never seen my father _shocked_. Before he knew it, Brandon had taken to the Kingsroad… The rest we know; but my father knew Rhaegar had acted honourably toward Lyanna, had wed her, before witnesses - his most trusted friends and protectors, the High Septon… When Brandon was imprisoned, and the Mad King summoned Father, he went south to King's Landing, hoping to speak to Queen Rhaella about Rhaegar's marriage to Lyanna…that the Starks were not enemies to the Crown, but that they were bound by marriage, perhaps the only allies the Targaryens had left after King Aerys' behaviour…"

"He never spoke to the Queen, did he?" Lyanna guessed sadly. In her mind, Rickard Stark looked very much like Father, grim and deeply loving, and fearful every waking moment for his children's happiness and their futures, and the safety and happiness of his people.

Benjen stared sadly at her; he didn't have to answer. They all knew what had happened next. Rhaegar, ensconced in the Tower of Joy with Lyanna, might never have known about Brandon and Rickard's arrests until it was too late, and the Rebellion had ignited across the Seven Kingdoms like wildfire.

"What happened to the letter?" Lyanna asked. It was important: A letter, written by Rhaegar, bearing Lyanna's new seal, and her title, in the possession of the Warden of the North… It was proof…proof of her lineage, proof she and Jon were not _bastards_.

It didn't matter to her that, by blood and by law, she and Jon had a greater claim to the Iron Throne than anyone living.

All she wanted in that moment was to shove that letter under Lady Catelyn's nose, and see the horror dawn in her eyes as she realised she had punished her husband for being the most honourable man in living memory, that she had despised innocent children born higher than any of her own - that she had been needlessly cruel to those who had posed no threat to her son's inheritance, for their own was far more illustrious… She wanted Lady Catelyn to know she had never deserved Ned Stark: And that the woman who had always had Ned's heart was his only sister, who had died tragically young, holding his hand as her babies mewled for her.

Perhaps she wanted Lady Catelyn to beg her forgiveness, for years of mistreatment, hatred and coldness.

All Larra had ever wanted was a mother. Once upon a time, she had hoped it might be Lady Catelyn: If she had so much as stroked her hair or kissed a cut on her finger, Larra would have been _hers_, absolutely.

Unkindness left its mark: And Larra wanted the satisfaction of seeing Lady Catelyn Tully brought low by the dreadful, exhilarating truth - that Ned Stark was a better man than even his own family had ever known… Larra had thought her opinion of Ned Stark could never get any better: She had been proven wrong.

"My father took it with him to King's Landing, as proof," Benjen sighed, his eyes shuttered. For the briefest moment, Larra realised that they had both experienced the same, brutal thing: Their fathers had both been summoned to King's Landing, and murdered as traitors. They had both been left behind at Winterfell to look after the North while their brothers went off to war…

"I wonder if Queen Rhaella ever saw it," Larra sighed, her breath gusting before her in a great plume.

She should know better, after years with the Three-Eyed Raven, than to dwell on the past. _The ink is dry_…_ But what if…?_

It was human-nature to wonder what things _might_ have been like…to regret that they would have been _better_ than they were…

There was no changing it, though; as the Bloodraven had said, the ink was dry.

It did not do to dwell on dreams, and forget to live.

Larra glanced at her uncle. "Was she beautiful?"

"She was," Benjen answered softly, his dark eyes flicking over her face. "You look so like her, it hurts. You and Jon look more like Lyanna than you do Rhaegar, but he is there, in your faces, sometimes. I've seen it. The shape of your eyes, your hands aren't Lyanna's. They are all Rhaegar; I remember his nimble fingers plucking the lyre as he sang… I see him more in Jon's nature; he's excellent at killing - and hates it. Rhaegar never liked war. He liked singing, and he liked reading - like you. But your mother…Lyanna was fierce, and good, and she was gentle and kind. She loved flowers and dancing, and Old Nan's stories, and galloping over the moors, exploring the wolfswood. She was sweet to Hodor and liked to tease me, but she was protective, too. A she-wolf…like you."

"We've had very different lives," Larra said softly. She had never fallen in love: Her mother's love had destroyed a dynasty.

"Yes," Benjen agreed. "I can tell you, as the one who knew her best… Lyanna would be so _proud_ of the woman you've become - of the man Jon has become."

"Was it really worth it? All the _horror_, the death…"

"Were _you_ worth it?" Benjen asked softly, stepping closer, to cup her face in his hand. His eyes were solemn; hers burned. "_Always_. Absolutely." His smile was pained.

"Why…why did Father never tell us?"

"You don't know how hard I battled to take you and Jon to a holdfast, and raise you," Benjen sighed, his eyes grief-stricken. "Ned returned from Dorne with you and Jon… I knew. How could I not? Ned told me it was he who had vowed to Lyanna you would always be safe, protected from Robert Baratheon, from everyone…"

Larra's eyes burned, caught up in the dream of growing up with Jon and Benjen in some small, warm holdfast, just the three of them, happy and content and _loved_. "We would've been happy."

"We wouldn't have ended up here," Benjen said quietly. "And here is where we were both always meant to be."

"Are you coming with us?" Larra asked; she hoped so, but knew, in the pit of her stomach, that the magic steeped through his body would prevent him passing the Wall.

"You know I can't," Benjen said softly, his smile sorrowful. "But I still fight for the living. And I will fight, for as long as I can."

"Thank you for telling me about her. About my mother."

"I wish I had more time to tell you about her. I wish you'd known her… You're so much like her, Larra," Benjen said, cupping her face, gazing at her. Looking upon Lyanna, one last time.

He leaned forward, pressing a cold kiss to her forehead.

"Thank you, Benjen." Her eyes burned, filling with tears: His black eyes glinted and he pressed his forehead against hers, breathing calmly, before pressing something into her palm. He gazed at her one last time, before turning to his horse.

Benjen galloped away, as if he could not bear to spend one moment longer with them - with her, with the ghost of his sister reborn.

He tore himself away, as if knowing he might never leave if he let himself gaze at her any longer.

Benjen missed his sister, had had no-one to talk about her to for decades; and had no time, now, to talk to her only daughter about her, the one person in the world who desperately wanted to hear about her.

Did it really matter?

Larra was who she was, because of Ned Stark - because of Benjen, even. Because of growing up a bastard of the North, with a twin-brother she loved, and siblings she had adored and envied in equal measure. Did it matter what her mother had been like, when Larra knew herself to be tireless, kind, gentle, resilient, brave, stubborn, protective, talented, educated and sometimes charming? She was who she was: And those who had known and loved Lyanna had told her that her mother would be proud of her. Lyanna was dead, and most who had known her too: Larra was herself. She was Larra Snow. Her blood did not change who she was, not when she had fought so hard to become this person.

Soon, Benjen was a speck far in the distance, flickering amongst the snowflakes and concealed by the fog - and then, gone.

Larra wiped her face, and eventually turned toward the heart-tree, where Bran lay, eyes milky-white, hand splayed against the bone-white bark of the tree-trunk. Communing with the weirwood, with the world's memories.

She shared a small meal with Meera by the fire: Meera didn't ask after Benjen, or comment on Larra's tear-stained face. They sat beside each other, sharing what little warmth they had, waiting for Brandon to free himself from the heart-tree.

"Where do we go from here?" Meera asked softly, her eyes turned toward the Wall.

"To Jon."

* * *

**A.N.**: Can I whine for a second about the unfairness that we didn't get Henry Cavill's Geralt as our Rhaegar?


	5. Two Blasts

**A.N.**: My face-claim (at the moment) for Alarra is Alisha Nesvat - her eyebrows make her a distant relative of Maisie Williams!

Also, my Gendry is a combo of Henry Cavill (see _The Tudors_) and our lovely Joe Dempsie, so he's got that powerful Superman broad-shouldered, muscular Geralt build (I'm excited for _The Witcher_ even though I've never played/read any of the books).

Oh, and Jon is a foot taller - a bit more of Tom Hiddleston's Loki physique, tall and lean and hungry, but powerful.

Bear with me on the timings. In my mind, the characters are a lot older. So it's been perhaps two or three years since Sam and Gilly met Bran etc. at the Night Fort and sent them through the Wall with dragonglass: When they meet again, it'll be closer to four, maybe five years. So, give or take, it's been perhaps seven years since the Starks left Winterfell? That puts Jon and Larra at about 23/24, Gendry about 21/22 (he's a 'similar' age to Robb and Jon, but he had to have been conceived after the Sack of King's Landing to put Robert in the city), Sansa at 19/20, Arya at 18/19 and Bran at 16/17.

I've also been watching a lot of Stark family/Song of Ice and Fire/Jonsa tribute videos on YouTube, and there'll definitely been an undercurrent of that in this story - because I think their chemistry is insane!

Also, because this is me, and because I should be working on my teaching qualifications instead, I've thought up my own characters to insert into the story - to make things more complicated for myself and to distract me from working…

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_05_

_Two Blasts_

* * *

The horn rang out, once…twice…

Everyone in Castle Black waited, filled with dread, for a third blast that never came.

Two blasts.

_Wildlings_.

Edd had fought at Hard Home, had survived it against all odds. He had been one among thousands of survivors, though thousands too few, to board Stannis Baratheon's ships and sail southwards. They had covered the frozen wastes of the North on foot to Castle Black, where Jon had left orders as Lord Commander to open the gates.

And in spite of his hatred of Jon, and even older hate of the wildings, Ser Alliser had opened the gate.

Thousands of wildlings had been allowed through the Wall, for the first time since Bran the Builder raised it. But the Night's Watch had been forced to leave thousands more wildlings to join the Night King's army.

He remembered what Sam had once said, that the Night's Watch vows meant they had a duty to protect the _realms_ of Men, no matter which side of the Wall they were born. Their duty was to Men. The Night's Watch had not been forged from the Age of Heroes to police wildlings; they were the sword in the darkness - and the darkness was the coming storm. The Night King and his legions.

Edd would remember the dead rising on the shores of Hard Home until his last breath. The _silence_, after the screams… It haunted him still. How had any wildling survived the Night King's army, when he had tens of thousands of soldiers at his command - _more_ \- scouring the lands beyond the Wall?

Eddison Tollet, Acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, picked up a flaming torch and trudged through the tunnel to the gate. It had been reinforced, three-fold, since Grenn fell defending it from the last King of Giants. He wondered if they should have blocked the tunnel, as Jon had advised Ser Alliser so long ago…but it hardly mattered now. If the Night King wanted past the Wall, one way or another he would find a way to do it.

It was a strange thing, to realise they had kept the tunnel unblocked so that any last wildlings fleeing the army of the dead could get south beyond the Wall to safety. When he had arrived at Castle Black, so long ago, he'd thought he'd be training to _kill_ wildlings. And he had fought them, and then fought _beside_ them, and then fought to _protect_ them, and realised the only difference between them was which side of the Wall they had grown up. He was the shield that guarded the realms of men, and they had all learned that a Night's Watchman's vows needed to be fluid: How could Jon unite the armies of the North from the Wall? He had reclaimed his home, and reunited the North under one banner, to protect the wildlings, and to prepare.

Jon needed him here. Jon needed to unite the Northern lords to fight the real enemy, but any force Jon could muster with his pretty, fire-kissed sister couldn't be caught unawares by the coming storm…

Ice exploded in small volleys as the chains rattled and groaned, protesting in the cold: His torch flickered violently as a gust of wind blew snowflakes in his eyes, biting his skin. He never got used to the cold, but it was almost gentle today. The sky was an endless white, and a weak sun made the high banks of snow shimmer like a maiden's silk name-day gown.

From the top of the Wall, he had seen the small formation approaching the Wall at some speed. There were no horses, as he had thought, and Edd stood, stunned, realising as the gate lifted that a pack of _direwolves_ had approached the Wall, encircling two people trudging on foot, a small sled between them pulled by a giant black direwolf almost as large as a dray-horse. The slender figures on foot were shrouded in furs, skins out, fur turned inward for more heat, the wildling way, but carrying suspiciously fine weapons in pale, slender hands scarred and calloused, and the wind teased a few curls loose from under their hoods. He could just see a pale face with sombre black eyes staring out from a pile of furs in the sled, a young man's face, surrounded by freshly-cropped dark hair.

He was reminded inexplicably of Benjen Stark, of Jon: A long face, sombre features and a stern nose. He wasn't yet a man, Edd thought, certainly years younger than Jon… And Edd remembered, years ago, Sam bringing a wildling girl and her babe through the Wall with stories of a crippled boy, a giant, and a ferocious, beautiful girl who sang to them as they shared a fire in the abandoned Night Fort to chase the ghosts away…Jon's twin-sister.

"Are you wildlings?" he asked dubiously, looking at the two on their feet. He could only see their eyes; their faces were protected with furs.

The taller of the two pushed back her hood, revealing a white oval face that reminded him of statues of the Maiden in his village's small sept. Pale, and sorrowful and beautiful, carved from pure white stone. She had a shock of freckles across her nose and her cheeks, decorating her skin as the stars did the night-sky. Her eyes were breath-taking, a deep vivid blue that was almost violet, beautiful and sharp as daggers, ringed with thick, blunt lashes. Above them, thick dark brows hovered sternly. Short locks of her dark hair curled wildly around her temples where they had escaped a thick, messy braid tangled with curls the colour of treacle, wound around her head like a crown. She had a pretty nose, high cheekbones and beautiful plump lips like tight rosebuds about to burst into bloom, drawn into a grim line.

Those eyes were the most vibrant thing he had seen in years.

She was shockingly _beautiful_.

She looked so like Jon that he stared. She was even tall like him.

"Samwell Tarly," she said, in Jon's Northern accent. "We need to see Sam."

Edd gaped. She knew _Sam's_ name? He glanced from her to the other girl - she had lowered her hood, revealing cropped curls, dark eyes and a face far less beautiful than the taller girl's, though still pretty in her way. She looked tired and gaunt - they both did, and she crept closer to the sled, where the young man gazed calmly at Edd.

"How do you know Sam's name?" he asked, bewildered; no wildling would ever have left Sam alive. The brothers of the Watch, those who honoured the Old Gods, believed Sam must have been favoured for swearing his Night's Watch vows before a heart-tree, for how else could the craven Samwell Tarly have killed a White Walker with only a shard of dragonglass?

But he had. Sam was no liar.

"He showed us the way through the Wall years ago," said the first girl. She looked older than the other, the one with the short hair; she looked so like Jon it was startling - and it was amusing to Edd to realise there _was_ someone in the world prettier than Jon Snow. "This is Lady Meera, daughter of Lord Howland of House Reed, and Brandon, brother of Robb Stark, King in the North. And I am Alarra Snow." She added her name as an afterthought - only _after_ introducing the true-born nobles as if announcing their appearance at court.

He remembered Sam telling them about a cripple - but where was the giant? And the skinny lad from the Neck who had been with them, sickly and pale? Edd knew, without asking: The storm had claimed them.

They were not lacking for direwolves; Sam had told Jon that two had been with the cripple and his sister. Now there was a huge pack of them, and he was aware his men were unnerved by them waiting, patiently, clustered around the gate, monstrous adults and huge, spindly-legged pups showing their lethal fangs as they yawned and yelped and played in the snow.

Alarra Snow…

_Larra_…

If he ever needed proof this young woman was Jon's sister, it was in the direwolves guarding her so fiercely.

"You're Jon's sister," muttered Edd, and his men shifted behind him. Everyone knew and respected Jon - the ones who had lived after the mutiny, of course; and even the ones who had surrendered grudgingly admired him. Those intense violet eyes lanced to his face, and Edd almost flinched. Where Jon was solemn and hid a sense of humour behind his profound sense of duty and loyalty, his eyes were always thoughtful, and usually kind. Hers were sharp like a Valyrian dagger and as dangerous as the direwolves circling them, filled with the kind of tension he remembered in the men before the wildlings' first attack on Castle Black, all that long time ago. Coiled with tension, like any of the direwolves surrounding them, waiting to attack their prey.

She had been beyond the Wall for years.

He could only imagine what she had survived.

"You were at the Fist of the First Men. You were at Hard Home with our brother," said a soft male voice; the young man in the sled spoke blandly, and he was staring at Edd - or, _through_ Edd. His dark eyes were turned toward him but Edd didn't think the lad really saw _him_ at all. "You've seen the Army of the Dead. You have seen the Night King… He is coming for us. For all of us. We must be ready."

A tiny frown had appeared between Alarra Snow's dark brows when Edd glanced at her, shocked. How did the lad know that? He didn't understand the look on Alarra's face, something like annoyance, almost distrust, as she gave the lad a sidelong look: But she lifted her vivid eyes to his and something like sorrow flickered in them - not pity. _Respect_. Edd had seen a lot, beyond the Wall: And so had she. He knew that, just from looking at her, just from the sight of her stood at the gate, wrapped in furs, _alive_. Jon smiled, laughed richly, on occasion - this girl, his twin-sister, looked like she hadn't smiled in a good long while, perhaps had even forgotten how to. She looked all the more beautiful because of it, even shrouded in furs, grubby from her journey.

A true Northern beauty, strong as steel, unyielding as a snowstorm, implacable as a glacier.

"Where is Sam? We need to speak with him - he is still steward to the Maester, isn't he?" Alarra pressed, her crisp Northern tones bordering impatient. Behind her, the great expanse of the North seemed to loom, barren and haunted.

"Maester Aemon…he died, and Jon sent Sam south to the Citadel to train as his replacement," Edd said, and Alarra Snow stared at him, something making her intense eyes spark like the embers of a violet fire.

"Maester _Aemon_?" she breathed, glancing briefly at the young man in the sled. Brandon Stark did not look back, but gazed blandly at the furs tucked over his legs. If Edd had thought Alarra Snow's face showed no emotion, she was a novice compared to the boy, his features still and detached, carved from marble. Alarra Snow frowned, and glanced up at Edd. "And what do you mean, _Jon_ sent him south?"

She had a Northern accent, but she had been raised a High Lord's daughter, even a bastard one; she had a different accent than the smallfolk of the North, but then again, a different accent than her half-sister Sansa, educated by a septa and raised at court. Her words were crisp, though, as if she faintly remembered having her words minded. Polite, though: Courtesy went a long way.

"Jon… He reclaimed Winterfell, but he left me in charge of the Watch," Edd told her. She stared, as if his words were absurd.

"What do you mean?"

"Jon Snow was named the nine-hundred-and-ninety-eighth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, after Jeor Mormont was butchered during a mutiny beyond the Wall," said one of Edd's companions, a big burly man with an enviable salt-and-pepper beard. He was Northern, Edd vaguely remembered. Every Northman respected the Starks - and she was Ned Stark's blood, even if she didn't have his name. More than that, Edd's brother respected _Jon_.

Alarra Snow's eyelashes fluttered as her eyes widened, the only indication of her shock. Her pretty lips twitched toward something like a smile, but it radiated from her eyes, more than her mouth; they glittered with something joyous and warm - _pride_ \- and for a second the terrifying wolf-warrior melted away, and Edd saw her brother's smile in her eyes.

"Jon was voted Lord Commander?" she breathed, and then her brows drew together, her lips parting. Hesitantly, she asked, "How could he retake Winterfell? He was sworn to give his life to the Watch."

"He did," said the boy in the sled, before Edd could open his mouth. The lad did not look up from his furs, but Alarra Snow seemed to sway on her feet, and all around her, the direwolves started to fidget, agitated. The enormous black one pulling the sled went rigid, fur on end. The boy sighed, and finally lifted dark, ancient, empty eyes to his half-sister. "He killed the boy, Alarra. He let the man be born."

Edd stared at the boy, shaken. It was common knowledge at the Castle, what happened to Jon Snow - the mutiny; and the Red Woman using fire-magic to bring him back after they butchered him. But Jon did not speak of it - Edd didn't know if he had even told the beautiful red-haired sister who had appeared at Castle Black all those months ago, pale and desperate but fierce and proud. She'd been the finest thing anyone at the Castle had seen in years, perhaps longer. A great beauty, kissed by fire.

First one sister, now another. Jon had three, Edd knew. Jon had thought two of them dead: One stood before Edd now.

Brandon Stark turned to Edd. "There is much you must tell my sister about the King in the North. But we should not linger beyond the protection of the Wall…" His pointed chin tucked down, to the side, as if he was listening behind him for the sounds of the Night King's army groaning and snarling at their heels. Perhaps they were: The Watch could not afford to send men out to cut down the woods, though Mance Rayder's great fire had gone a long way in clearing the terrain immediately beyond the Wall. As long as the snows and the fog were not too heavy, they would see the armies of the dead coming… And then Edd had no clue what he'd do.

"What has Robb got to do with this?" Alarra asked, her dark brows drawing together, and Edd glanced at his brothers, suddenly uneasy. Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. King in the North… She had been beyond the Wall for years…

Did she not know?

The Red Wedding…how _could_ she know? He remembered Grenn gently breaking the news to Jon with Maester Aemon, before that very first attack of wildlings from the south, led by Tormund Giantsbane, and Jon's redhead wildling girl… Stuck through with arrows, Jon had had to be told about the sacking of Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy's betrayal…his brothers' and sister's murders by his own brother… First that, and then the ginger wildling lass, shot through the heart, dying in Jon's arms… Jon had to think the gods had no love for him at all.

Turned out, perhaps, they…_did_.

The lad did not raise his eyes from his furs; Edd stood helplessly, remembering Jon's reaction to the news, dreaded having to deliver the news to his sister… And what about the younger brother Jon had lost on the battlefield outside Winterfell? He'd been too little, had been left at Winterfell, Jon had told them, his wild younger brother who had wept bitterly and lashed out at Jon in a rage when he went to say goodbye before journeying to the Wall…

There had been little hope of saving the boy from Ramsay Bolton's dungeon, but Jon had been determined to do it.

It was one of the many reasons men respected him, chose to follow him.

At least Edd could say Sansa Stark had escaped King's Landing. That was something, at least. He remembered Jon's reaction when she'd appeared in the yard, grubby and cold; Jon's heart, warmed by the Red Woman's fire, had stopped once again.

"Come on, let's get you inside," Edd sighed, glancing past the girls to the snows beyond. "You must be hungry."

"What about them?" one of his men asked, nodding at the direwolves, who were padding over the snows to form a guard around the slender women and the sled-bound boy.

"_I'm_ not trying to stop them," Edd muttered, eyeing the direwolves warily. They were larger than any of the Watch's rugged ponies, lean from snowstorms, and he had seen Ghost fight too many times not to be wary of their strength and ferocity - it was no wonder the ancient Starks had used them in their sigil. Vicious, dangerous, hard-to-kill, monstrous wolves from legend, for implacable, dangerous hard-to-kill men from legend. Even in the Vale he had grown up with stories of the Starks and their direwolf sigil.

_Winter is coming_… From the Vale, born and bred, Edd had never thought he'd live by the Northmen's words. The Watch was bonded more strongly with Winterfell than any other House in the Seven Kingdoms, and it showed; he remembered Maester Aemon muttering that 'Starks are always right in the end…_winter is coming_…' He sometimes wondered what the Maester would have said about all this…and was glad, somehow, that he wasn't around to have to survive it. Would they?

As the last pup pelted along the tunnel, followed by a grumbling elder, the gate creaked and groaned, lowering, leaving the tunnel darkened, eerie, glowing with a soft blue light that reminded Edd all too clearly of the Night King's army. Alarra Snow turned to Edd, as the other girl mounted the sled, guiding Brandon Stark toward the castle.

"Lord Commander," she said quietly, with a stern, respectful bite, her brows knitting together as she gazed back down the tunnel toward the gate. "Anyone caught behind us fights for the Night King now."

He liked that she did not mince words, though it filled him with dread to hear them.

"How long do we have?" Edd asked, after sighing heavily. He had to have seen the Night King to believe his strength; perhaps that was why Jon had left him the Watch - because Edd _had_ seen, and knew the truth of the danger they all faced.

"Not nearly long enough," Alarra told him. She had Jon's long legs, and though she limped, her gait was swift - she walked as if she was determined to not let anything get in her way, not even physical pain. Her hand was curled around the hilt of a precious sword, a great shining red stone set into the pommel, etched with something Edd couldn't quite see. Jon had never said House Stark had more than one Valyrian steel sword, the one his father wielded, named Ice: Jon had regretted his father's - his family's - sword had been lost in King's Landing when they beheaded his father. "Moon-turns, perhaps, if that. I would not wager against more than six. The dead do not tire."

"The Wall has stood for thousands of years," Edd reminded her, reminded himself. He slept infrequently, and badly, and woke choking on his terror, blue eyes glowing in the shadows of his chamber.

"Let's hope it doesn't fail us before we're ready to face the storm," Alarra muttered, her expression dubious as she lifted those violet eyes to the icy tunnel around them.

"You really have seen him." Those uncanny, almost wolf-like, dangerous blue eyes pinned Edd in place.

"We escaped him. _Just_," Alarra admitted, gazing ahead at the sled, surrounded by Night's Watch brothers and direwolves. She turned back to Edd, and something in her eyes had softened. _Grief_ seemed to seep from her, like waves of heat from a fire. "The Watch has existed for thousands of years; but it cannot fight the Night King from the Wall."

"Where else would we fulfil our vows?" Edd frowned.

"Winterfell," Alarra said, after a moment, glancing down the tunnel again. "Lord Commander… All the living North must unite if they want to survive the Long Night - and we can only protect our most vulnerable from Winterfell."

She sounded like Sansa.

They had such profound faith in their home.

To them, Winterfell was not just a castle. It wasn't stones and towers, forges and glasshouses and libraries and a godswood. It was safety. It was _strength_. It was _home_.

They had fought to reclaim it - Jon, and Lady Sansa.

Fought with all they had, and less than they needed. And _won_.

Starks had not ruled the North for thousands of years by being soft. Jon had not survived this long by being soft. Starks were stubborn as aurochs and vicious as direwolves, and they fought _together_. Edd knew the value of Jon's loyalty: He had exchanged his family at Winterfell for his brothers at the Wall - and when those brothers betrayed him, he had taken on the mantel of protector - not just of his sister, but of the _entire_ North, of the Free Folk he had let through the gate to protect them from true monsters, of the smallfolk who knew nothing of the world beyond the borders of their hamlets, of the lords who had sworn their swords to protecting the North for centuries under the Stark banner.

The Starks had reclaimed Winterfell, erasing their enemies' names from history, reminding Westeros that their great House had endured for so long for a _reason_, and that strength meant they were one of the few great Houses left in Westeros left to recover from the recent turmoil. The King in the North was allied with the Free Folk for the first time in thousands of years, and had asked them to man the abandoned fortresses along the Wall: The Northern lords had strengthened their bonds with the new King in the North they had named after he avenged the Red Wedding: A battle-bond had been forged with the Knights of the Vale - Lady Sansa was cousin to Lord Arryn through her murdered mother, but the knights respected Jon Snow for his stern, fair leadership and earnestness.

Together, Jon and Sansa had reclaimed the North. _Together_. They had buoyed each other, encouraged and strengthened by each other's nearness. They were _family_. And Jon Snow had always spoken of his father's influence, that Ned Stark had considered every man, woman and child in the North his personal responsibility to provide for, and protect.

They had lost their brother in taking Winterfell back, but thousands of other brothers had been saved, and as great as Edd knew Jon's grief would be over his brother's death, it would be nothing to the relief that he could fulfil the vows he had sworn in the weirwood grove beyond the Wall… _I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men…_

"Why Winterfell? There are other castles between there and the Wall - although none so big."

"Bran the Builder raised the Wall…but he also laid the foundations of Winterfell," Alarra told him earnestly. "The same magic that holds the Wall protects the ancient keep of Winterfell. If we want to survive, we must all unite there - and that includes the brothers of the Night's Watch. To leave you scattered along the Wall is a waste; we will need every able-bodied person we can get."

"Jon sent wildlings to man the Wall's outposts - he sent them to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea," Edd muttered. "It's closest to Hard Home; the Night King will likely march on the Wall there."

"Recall them - send ravens, today, now, before the snows hit again - they must head south to Winterfell, with anyone they can find," Alarra said plaintively.

"We must keep watch -"

"Everyone. _Everyone_ must go to Winterfell," Alarra said urgently. "We will know, if they breach the Wall…we will know…" Her vivid eyes lingered on the sled.

"How?" Edd asked. The soft blue-white light at the end of the tunnel grew brighter as they approached - he could hear the clangs and shouts and echoes of the yard, the smithy, as they neared the Castle, the last of the direwolves disappearing into the brightness.

"You have seen things, Lord Commander, beyond the Wall. Giants, and worse." He couldn't help but like it when she called him Lord Commander.

"Aye."

"When I tell you that my brother is the last of the great greenseers, would you waste our time disbelieving me?"

"Greenseer? He…has visions?" Edd frowned, and realised the lad could only have known Edd was at Hard Home and the Fist of the First Men if he _did_ have visions… Those who'd known about Hard Home were either far south of the Wall, or marching among the dead. Hadn't they all heard stories about those struck mad with visions of the future - or the past? Greenseers came from legend - but then, didn't giants belong there, too? Didn't he wish White Walkers had remained confined to stories of the long-distant past? He had fought and survived both.

He'd seen Jon raised from the dead by a woman who sang in a foreign tongue and saw visions in the fire. If Jon Snow's twin-sister was telling him that greensight was real, and that her brother had the gift, who was he to argue: He was going to believe her.

"He is the Three-Eyed Raven. Brandon sees all that ever was, and all that _is_," Alarra told him, with the same seriousness that Jon had always spoken about things he was truly passionate about, believed in wholly. "We must get to Winterfell: When the Wall is breached, Brandon will tell us. But we must be leagues away from here before then, with as many people as we can save. Otherwise they will only join the Night King's army, as all those lost at Hard Home did."

He remembered Tormund Giantsbane _weeping_ as the Night King raised the dead on the ice-encrusted shores of Hard Home, the silence, the horror… If they'd only gotten there before, if they hadn't fought so hard against the wildlings that they'd facilitated the Night King's campaign without realising it…if only they could have _known_, if only they'd had _time_…

They entered the yard, and Edd gazed around. Half the courtyard had gone still, watching. Even with everything they had witnessed the last few months, it was not normal even for them for a pack of direwolves to pad their way through the snow into the training-yard, guarding a cripple, a lady from the Neck, and the twin-sister of the King in the North, their sworn brother. With her hood down, they could all see Alarra Snow's stark beauty. She looked so like Jon, even the way she wore her sword-belt, her curls teased by the wind, that the men stared.

First Sansa Stark, and now Alarra Snow.

Was there anyone in the Stark family who wasn't beautiful?

Edd sighed, eyeing the gate critically. He nodded to himself, making a decision.

"Your brother will tell us, if the Wall is breached?" Edd asked.

"Brandon will see it as it happens," Alarra told him grimly. He sighed heavily, and indicated some of his brothers with a nod of the head. They trudged over, mindful of the direwolves - even the smaller ones were the size of ponies, could tear a man's limbs with little effort. Ghost had fought when the wildlings attacked Castle Black; he had attacked when the mutineers turned on Jon's friends.

"Lord Commander?"

"Seal the tunnel," Edd commanded grimly. His brothers exchanged uneasy looks.

"There's no need," said Brandon Stark gently, and Edd glanced at him: Alarra frowned.

"Why?" Edd asked. He wasn't going to mince words, not about his duty to protect the North from what lay beyond.

"The Night King will not bring his assault on the Wall here at Castle Black," said the boy with the ancient voice. He was not looking at him; he gazed into the distance, his eyes glassy and sharp at the same time. Eerie, like a raven staring at him. "Not when there are so many more vulnerable places to choose from. Jon was right, sending the Free Folk to Eastwatch; but they'll die there, if they stay."

Edd stared at the boy, because he was barely more than a boy, even if his eyes seemed ancient. Ancient and cold and tired. Edd didn't know what they had survived beyond the Wall, only that Samwell had let them through a secret door in the Night Fort years ago, leaving Jon and anyone else who heard the story to believe that Jon's brothers and sister were, truly, dead. Because how could they have survived what was beyond? But they had. And they were here, now, warning Edd.

He'd wished many times that they'd reached Hard Home sooner. Facing _that_, what did it matter that he wore black, and they wore furs and chainmail of muscle-shells? They were _alive_. In that moment, there had been no wildlings and no Night's Watch, just the living, and the dead. If he'd had some warning, some way to know the fates that befell all those at Hard Home who could not be saved, if he had had some foresight, some way of getting there sooner…wouldn't he have acted, without thought?

Jon would have.

The unlikeliest survivors of the bitterest place in the world were on his doorstep, telling him they would die if they did not get south - the sad irony that the Wall was now Hard Home. Only, they had prior warning.

He summoned an officer over with a twitch of his fingers.

"Lord Commander?"

"Send a lad up to the perches: Everyone's to meet in the hall for nightfall."

"What about the watch?" another brother asked.

"Everyone, in the hall, before nightfall," Edd repeated. "In their thickest clothing, every one of them armed. Have the larders emptied into wagons, and as soon as they're full, send them on to Last Hearth with the young, trained lads." He watched as the men dispersed, and glanced at Alarra Snow. "Castle Black has been home to many of us for longer than we were ever with our families… It'll unnerve them to abandon it."

"There is no reason to stay here," Alarra sighed sadly, her breath pluming around her face like a veil as she gazed around the courtyard, her features grim, and so like Jon, Edd almost smiled. He wondered if she was as disappointed by the Night's Watch as Jon had been when he first arrived, his head full of stories of the glorious sacrifices made by the heroic Night's Watch… Word spread around the courtyard, and the armoury and stables, that a meeting had been called; all other work was to cease, to get the wagons loaded.

And word spread that Lady Alarra Snow, sister to their brother the King in the North, was among them. He was conscious of the fact that Alarra Snow was the most beautiful woman any of them had seen since Sansa Stark - maybe even including her, depending on preference - and Jon wasn't around this time. Jon's blood still ran black, for all he was King in the North now - that made Alarra Snow his sister as much as Jon's. Knowing his stubborn brothers as he did, Edd wondered if half the reason most of the men had gathered without complaint, waiting patiently as night fell in the hall, was to get a glimpse of her. Lady Sansa had been a sight for sore eyes, in her tired wool gown and vibrant hair: And Alarra, in her furs, with her rosebud lips and intensely violet eyes, was awing in her beauty, the candlelight making love to her ivory-white skin as she waited at the officer's table, patiently listening to Edd, and Brandon Stark, who murmured so softly people were reminded of soft-spoken, wise, ancient Maester Aemon… Maester Aemon had spoken little, and so quietly most had to strain to hear, but what he had said was always careful, and wise, and right: Brandon Stark, a century younger, was the same.

"We're headed south, lads," he announced, sighing heavily. "The army of the dead marches on the Wall; if it falls, the only place we can fight, and fight together to defeat them, is Winterfell. Jon's there. He's gathering armies from across the North; he has the Knights of the Vale; he has the wildlings. We're sending ravens tonight, everyone must abandon their posts at the Wall and retreat to Winterfell, with anyone they can find along the way." Agitated murmuring, but generally, the men agreed; they were superstitious, and believed honest men. Jon and Sam and Edd were honest men: They also believed the word of battle-hardened, mad fuckers like Tormund Giantsbane, the last man to run from _anything_, let alone a fight - and he had told them to _flee _as far south as south goes… Jon had told the Night's Watch that the Wall would fall, and the world would end; and they had to stop it. So, they would. Edd was just the man left in charge to make the decisions he thought Jon would. And Jon would tell him to get their brothers to Winterfell to join with the armies making a stand against the Night King.

"You've already started clearing out the larders. I want each of you to carry rations, and weapons," Edd said, "even if you've not been instructed how to wield them yet. You'll learn."

"Lord Commander?" A woman's soft, low voice, quiet and polite. Edd glanced at Lady Alarra. "Might I make a suggestion?"

"My lady?"

"Unless you've a cache of Valyrian steel in your armoury, your weapons are nigh on useless against the army of the dead," Lady Alarra said, and his men shifted uncomfortably. To be told they had to fight was one thing: To know they would lose, regardless of how fiercely they fought? That was another. But the lady wasn't finished: And the only thing stronger than fear was hope. "You have fletchers among you," Lady Alarra said, gazing out over his brothers, and a few of his brothers nodded, murmuring. She had the same stern Northern face as Jon - and a good many Northern faces stared back at her, listening to her, an educated lady, the daughter of their respected liege-lord. It didn't take long for his brothers to quiet: She had that same stern presence Jon did, regal and implacable - and it helped she was the most beautiful thing any of them would likely see before they died. She lanced those violet eyes to Edd. "Grant the fletchers room in the wagons; they are better served making arrows than marching with idle hands."

Simple, really. Why hadn't Edd thought of that? Jon had taken the only Valyrian steel sword south. They couldn't light their swords on fire - but they could unleash a torrent of flaming arrows to keep the dead at bay. Fire and dragonglass were all that stopped wights and White Walkers.

"Hear that, lads; keep your hands warm," Edd said, and the fletchers nodded. "Take some of the boys, too; teach them." He glanced at Larra. "Before he went south, Jon ordered us to start drilling daily with bows. Seems you think alike in spite of the distance between you."

"Experience is a brutal teacher," Lady Alarra said sorrowfully, and Edd nodded. "How much pitch do you have?"

"Almost a thousand barrels," said one of his brothers. "The Shadow Tower and Eastwatch each sent half their cache after the wildling attack on Castle Black, Stannis Baratheon left more behind, what with having the Red Woman alongside him."

"We'll need it," Lady Alarra said simply, and Edd's brother nodded, turning to murmur to the men around him.

"Right, lads… You know your orders. Put on all your warmest clothes. The first of the wagons should nearly be ready to go," Edd said, over the low murmur groaning through the hall. "Fletchers, go now and get your things. We can't wait for first light; we can't risk another snowstorm won't hit. The wagons leave as they're filled. Every man's to carry his rations, his bed-roll, a sword, a bow and quiver, a flint and torch. Stewards going through the library - pack up the scrolls, and you can keep reading as we go; I want three of you on the wagon, taking shifts to read and drive. And don't forget ravens." Edd sighed, but turned to Lady Alarra as he sat down heavily beside her, his brothers scraping back their benches and murmuring - but carried out orders. Under Jeor Mormont, under Jon, the Watch ran itself: Every man knew what was expected of him, and their leadership showed itself now, a small army mobilising at a moment's notice. "Sam'll murder me for leaving half the library, but what can you do?"

"Why only half the library?" Lady Alarra asked curiously.

"The lads've been digging out any manuscript or scroll referencing dragonglass or obsidian; Jon's orders. It's the only thing -"

"The only thing that can kill wights and White Walkers, besides Valyrian steel," Lady Alarra murmured, nodding to herself.

"S'pose you can't've made it this far without learning how to kill them yourself," Edd ventured, not wanting to ask about their experiences beyond the Wall - after all, not all of them had made the return journey. She gave a nod, agreeing, but not giving any information either. Instead, sat upright and queenly in her chair, she turned to Edd, and asked, "What is it you're so reluctant to tell me?"

Edd stared at her, and sighed heavily. He reached for a flagon and filled her cup.

"Here. Drink," he said heavily. "Best light a fire in your belly before I tell you."

Alarra Snow exchanged a glance with her companion: Lady Meera nodded, and followed after Brandon Stark without a word as several of Edd's brothers carried the lad to the Lord Commander's tower.

"It shouldn't be me, telling you all this," Edd sighed, agitated and uncomfortable. "It should be Jon."

"What happened?"

"What's the last thing you'd heard? About Winterfell - about - anything -?"

He told her.

She took the news stoically, her face betraying no emotion: But her eyes seemed to glow with purple fire, glinting in the candlelight, and a muscle in her jaw ticked, as if she was clenching her teeth so tightly, no scream of grief could ever pass.

But she didn't cry. She didn't scream, or rage. She simply closed her eyes, and let out a soft, broken gasp. She croaked a thank you, to Edd, for telling her.

But it shouldn't have been Edd telling her. It shouldn't even have been Jon.

It should have been _Bran_ to tell her everything.

* * *

**A.N.**: They don't really go into the overhaul of Bran's personality, how he is "not really" Bran anymore, that Bran is still there, buried beneath thousands of years of memory. That must be incredibly frustrating to the people close to him, who still look at him and see Bran Stark, and expect him to react in the same ways Bran would have - or sharing the same interests as the rest of his siblings, like sharing the truth about Robb and Catelyn, and Rickon.


	6. The Sharpest Blades

**A.N.**: Essay done! Now I can play for a little while! This chapter is dedicated to _Ketsueko_, in the hopes you'll grin and bear it for a little while as I get things in place for the story we both would rather be reading! And to _spacevoyage_, thank you for your lovely review!

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_06_

_The Sharpest Blades_

* * *

"Jon…"

He looked up from the table, littered with raven-scrolls and papers from the maesters, sums and estimations, and set down the census Maester Wolkan had gathered on all the able bodies who had arrived at Winterfell since he called the banners - their trade, their children, any skills with weapons. As much as he wanted to ensure every able-bodied person in the North could wield an obsidian dagger against the coming storm…a little voice inside his head, that had sounded suspiciously like Larra, had reminded him that they still had to believe that they might survive the Long Night, and that…they couldn't risk losing their craftsmen - their blacksmiths and joiners, crofters and carpenters, their hunters and tanners, cooks, butchers and millers. They had to go on planning for the future - even if it might never come.

Because there had to be that glimmer, that faint spark of _hope_…that maybe it would - maybe they _could_ survive, maybe it would be _enough_…

They had to be prudent about who they risked.

So, a census. To figure out who…who they sacrificed.

Larra had called them her 'designated survivors'.

As children, Maester Luwin had taught them cyvasse. Robb had been especially brilliant at battle-strategy; Larra, cunning and cautious about committing to anything that would cause significant loss of life. And she always had her list. Her designated survivors - those who would be intrinsic in rebuilding after any significant conflict. And because it made sense, however horrible it sounded to place one person above any other, they had started to adapt their own strategies. Learning…they had always learned from each other, as much as Maester Luwin. Now, Jon was applying what he remembered from those cyvasse games, Larra's strategies for minimum-casualties…

His father had always told them, never ask a stranger to fight for you. Jon was asking them to _die_ for him. For all the living North; for the _world_, truly.

It was a hateful thing to have to do. But it was necessary.

_But_…

Eyes aching in the candlelight, he knew it was well past the hour of the wolf. He'd get no rest, though, until he had faced the Night King. One way, or another, he'd rest.

If it didn't leave him sick to his stomach to think what might become of Sansa if he did, Jon would have given in to the desire simply to _rest_ a good long while ago…

He'd been fighting since he left Winterfell, and even his return home had been marked with violence that had reached legendary status - the Battle of the Bastards. He had avenged the Red Wedding… He had fought on the moors before Winterfell; and now he fought almost daily in the Great Hall, arguing with, and trying to convince, his lords and ladies… Trying to convince them that a threat they didn't believe was real, could barely imagine, _was_ real, and set on ending everything they held precious to them…

He was _still_ fighting.

He almost wouldn't mind being one of those sacrificed to stop the Night King. If it meant his work was finished, his fight was over…if it meant Sansa was safe at Winterfell…but it was Sansa that kept him from giving in. As he'd said to her, the day she arrived at Castle Black, if he didn't watch over her, Father's ghost would come back and murder him…

After his own men had murdered him, his _brothers_, all Jon had wanted when they dragged him back was to walk away. To leave the Wall, leave the North, and just…_rest_. Stop fighting.

_Go back to that cave_…

It was the flicker of red hair. Sometimes he caught Sansa in the right light, and the glint of her hair shining like firelight made his heart clench in his chest, feeling the knife twist a second time. Like now.

She was no warrior, but sometimes, Jon could be forgiven for thinking Sansa shared some of Ygritte's ferocity. _Tenacity_, sternness tempered by her pain and strength and grief and hope, paired with the elegance he always remembered as intrinsic in Sansa. She had always been beautiful; now there was something cold and untouchable about her, something hostile and strong and warning, gentle to him and protective. _Wolflike_. She was more beautiful than he even remembered. And he hated - _hated_ \- that she sewed herself into her new dresses, lashed in by fiddly straps and thick leather belts and sharp needle-pointed chains, layers and layers of fabric - to protect herself. Here, at Winterfell, in her own home, she still came to the solar in the dark of night, her hair casually braided over her shoulder like a wolf's tail, as she would wear it to bed, but she was shrouded in a heavy wool cloak, wrapped around her quilted dress, into which she was tightly laced.

Jon, a practical Northman, with experience at the Wall, wore the same leathers in Father's solar as he wore on the battlefield: Sansa wore her quilted dress, tufted with raven-feathers, a tiny needle in her fist and leather bracing her waist, cinching everything in, the belt difficult to unbuckle, the dress impossible to wriggle out of. Even now, months later, she would not walk the halls of their home without her armour. Not even to see him.

Not when Littlefinger lingered, gazing hungrily at the Lady of Winterfell.

Jon wasn't stupid. His worst imaginings couldn't compare to what Sansa had endured - and she _had_; she had survived horrors beyond imagining, and proven that she was strong, and could never be broken… And he couldn't bear to ask her; knew she would never tell him. How could she? He couldn't put into words what it felt to be murdered: How could she tell him how it felt to be tortured?

In spite of all that…here she was. The Lady of Winterfell. The Stark in Winterfell.

If it hadn't been for her, they never would have taken back their home. They never could have protected the North. Never could have united to fight the Night King.

He would have left the Wall and never looked back. He was _tired_.

And then she had appeared in the yard, tired and cold and pained, the look on her face like her heart was breaking with relief at the sight of him. He'd never forget that day in the yard, as the snow fell gently, in her grey dress, and her bright braid draped over her shoulder, the way her blue eyes filled with tears warm against his lips as he kissed her frozen cheeks, the way she shivered in his arms as he held her so tightly he could feel how thin she was, and saw the grimace of pain she tried to hide. _Sansa_.

Sansa had changed _everything_.

Lady Melisandre had warmed his heart again with her Lord's magic: But Sansa had given him a second lease on life. Given him a dose of whatever it was he had been fighting so hard to reclaim, something he couldn't even name or describe but knew when the well was running dry… He was _tired_: She gave him strength. Reminded him of his purpose.

Her gentle smile, now edged with steel, gave him that spark he sometimes needed. Whether she was frustrating him to the point of distraction, or making him laugh as she choked on bad ale… He sometimes needed the reminder _why_ he had been fighting so hard.

He'd been so tired for so long.

"You should be in bed," he sighed, kneading his aching eyes.

"I wonder _you're _not in bed," Sansa sighed, bolting the door to the solar behind her. She strode around Winterfell in the quilted dresses she sewed herself, but at least, with him, if him alone, she peeled off the heavy cloak she draped around herself, revealing herself. She lay the cloak over one of the chairs in front of his work-table, and went to stoke the fire. She turned to him, her hair glowing in the dark. "You're going to fall off your horse if you don't rest."

"I'll try and get a couple of hours' sleep before dawn," Jon muttered, shrugging unconcernedly, though his body ached. The gods knew he'd stayed awake longer, doing more arduous tasks than deciphering Maester Wolkan's tiny scribble. If he'd stopped to rest while scaling the Wall, he'd have been flat as a drop-scone at the bottom of it…

Sometimes he felt as if he was _still_ scaling that impossible sheer wall, no end in sight, his body aching and his mind ensnared by thoughts of pure terror, exhilaration - _determination_…

Sometimes he forgot that he'd seen the dawn break as he reached the top, and never seen anything more welcome. It was the climb he remembered; the kiss lay in the realms of his memory where he daren't venture to linger too long, or be lost. That was where Ygritte lived. And Robb, and Larra, and Bran and Rickon and Arya and Father and every brother he'd lost since he left Winterfell those years ago.

"Perhaps some mulled wine would help?" Sansa pondered. It was their drink of choice, here at home, at Winterfell: She couldn't abide the taste of ale, and he would drink anything. He'd had to teach her how to prepare it, though, the Northern way, after so long in the capital - the same way he used to prepare it for Lord Commander Mormont. It was a ritual they had: If something was bothering her, Sansa would come and sit in the solar, prepare mulled wine, and share a single cup with him. A single cup, no more, no less, passed between them: She never finished it if it had gone cold - he hated to waste it, so drank it even if it was cold, and the spices tasted strange on his tongue.

The wine was Sansa's way of getting him away from his work. He had to set the papers down, and join her at the high-backed settle before the fire. It was freshly-upholstered with a cushioned leather seat, the high back engraved, at Sansa's request, with a motif of the Battle of the Bastards. No flayed men, though: It showed the Starks' conquest, the Free Folk, Wun Wun the last giant, and the Knights of the Vale riding in. Their enemies were featureless, their uniforms unmarked, no sigil upon their tattered banners. As Sansa had told her husband, all memory of him would disappear: She would ensure it. Feather-stuffed cushions embroidered with rich symbolism, gifts from the Northern ladies ensconced at Winterfell for their safety, made the settle one of the most comfortable places to sit in the solar. One of Sansa's heavy knitted blankets, and a fur throw, Sansa's little footstool, made it the cosiest Jon remembered ever being, with Sansa tucked up beside him, passing a cup of mulled wine between them as they watched the flames flickering back into life in the grate. Sometimes Sansa would sew, but she didn't sing anymore.

Usually she relaxed; tonight, she was sat bolt upright, hand around the steaming cup of wine, staring at the fire as if she couldn't bear to look at him. The flickering light illuminated her eyes, stark and far-away, her face bleached of expression.

"I don't want you to go," she finally said, softly, gazing at the flames. He grimaced as he sipped the wine, though the flavours coated his tongue and fire warmed his belly.

"I know," he told her grimly. In the quiet of the room, he could hear Sansa's breathing, quick and shallow; he could read her well, now. Knew she was anxious. Perhaps even _terrified_ for him. Dragonstone. In his role as Lord Commander, he had been so focused on the Free Folk and the Night King that he'd rarely given second thought to the politics of the world beyond the New Gift, news brought by ravens, or by the wandering crows bringing fresh recruits. And while his gaze was turned north, a new Queen had appeared in the south. _Another_ queen. There were two, now. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Cersei Lannister; and the Targaryen girl they called the Mother of Dragons, who had made berth at Dragonstone after setting sail from her colony in Essos, declaring herself rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

A Targaryen. The Mad King's daughter.

She had taken Dragonstone, her birth-right - and an inconvenience: They needed obsidian. Needed a mountain of it. And now the Targaryen girl sat atop it, with, they said, an army of Unsullied, a horde of Dothraki screamers and three _dragons_.

Ser Davos thought Jon might convince her to ally with them: Jon was sceptical.

Daenerys Stormborn had not sailed across half the world to commit her troops to fighting the Night King: She had come for the Iron Throne.

To reclaim what was snatched from her family after centuries of their madness and brutality finally came to a head. Father and son had almost destroyed the Seven Kingdoms to get what they wanted.

Jon Arryn had called his banners to protect his two wards, Ned and Robert: But it was Aerys and Rhaegar who, combined, provoked a rebellion that overthrew a dynasty - their own. One burned father and son alive: The other, abducted and abused their daughter, their sister. Rickard and Brandon and Lyanna…

All dead because of one Targaryen or another.

And Jon had to go and ask for help from the last of them, and offer nothing in return: He could not yield the North - _would_ not. Not to a Targaryen. Not when his adviser, not when every lord and lady in the North remembered the Mad King, remembered Jon's grandfather, his uncle, his aunt, and vehemently opposed Jon risking the journey south to meet the Mad King's daughter - but they hadn't seen, couldn't know, only his brothers and the Free Folk who'd fought and fled them ever could: He'd risk the dragon_fire_ if it meant getting them dragon_glass_.

Or they were all lost.

It didn't mean he wanted to go. Didn't mean he didn't dread leaving Winterfell - and Sansa. Not after all the horrors and years they had endured to return to each other.

"You know I've no choice," he sighed heavily. Truly, he knew, instinctively, that Daenerys Stormborn would never capitulate to one of his lords or ladies. She had declared herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms: Jon had been named King of one of those kingdoms, independent of the Iron Throne. The Targaryen queen would just as likely incinerate any emissary than consider gifting them dragonglass for their trouble in journeying so far south. "I wouldn't be going if I could think of any other way…we _need_ the obsidian."

"But do you have to go yourself?"

"You know I do," Jon said gently. "If it costs my life to secure the dragonglass, so be it; I'm just one man among many. Just because I'm your brother doesn't mean my name should be added on to the list of designated survivors."

"The what?" Sansa asked, frowning delicately. Jon sighed, and reached behind him for the maester's census. He showed Sansa the scribbles, and his own annotations. "When we were still in the schoolroom, Maester Luwin taught us cyvasse. A war-game of strategy and conquest and risk… Larra…used to keep a list, her 'designated survivors', the people she'd never risk, even in the event of open war, when every last man counted. She used to say you have to strategize as if you'll win; but assume that the effort to rebuild will be more arduous than the war itself. Especially if all your tradesmen and their apprentices are dead."

"Jon…you're the King," Sansa murmured, eyes widening. "We need you."

"You don't need me," Jon said, shaking his head. "Not now. I've done my part. Winter is coming, and you'll meet it when it does. You, and all the living North…" Sansa stared at him, her eyes glowing in the firelight; she looked at once furious and heartbroken. He frowned, biting his lip, gazing back at her, realizing. "Sansa…you know what to do, if I don't return. You can't let anything distract you, _nothing_, not even my death, not vengeance or politics - nothing else matters. Not Cersei, not Daenerys; only this fight. We fight for the living."

"Jon…"

"If I don't return, work with Lord Royce and Lord Manderly, they're experienced commanders; work with Karsi and Tormund, they've faced the wights and the Night King before," Jon said, reaching out to rub her shoulder; she looked so distraught, overwhelmed. But why shouldn't he plan for his execution? He needed to make sure she understood - it wasn't about southern politics. It was about the _living_. "They'll make sure the threat isn't underestimated… You remember what I taught you. " Sansa blinked, and he gave her a look. "Where is it?" She grimaced subtly, but reached down and unsheathed the slender dagger tucked into a neat sheath sewn into her thick wool stockings. "You're still not happy to conceal it on you."

"It's…unfamiliar," Sansa said, delicately holding the slender blade. It wasn't much, nothing to Long Claw, but after the little needle he'd first seen her wear on the chain around her neck, he'd asked one of the new smiths to forge it in likeness of a Braavosi _stiletto_ blade, a sister to Arya's Needle, delicate but deadly. Sansa eyed the blade critically as the firelight flickered over the steel. "I don't think it would do me much good, anyway."

"Those who don't know how to use them often end up dying on them," Jon said grimly, taking the knife from Sansa to twirl it around his fingers. She watched his fingers move, frowning subtly, as if trying to work out how he handled the blade so confidently.

"Larra knew how to wield a weapon…Arya was training in King's Landing," Sansa said, and a muscle ticked in her jaw as she clenched it, her eyes turning cold and hard as she stared at the blade.

Jon flinched, and sighed heavily. "Lady Brienne said she saw Arya alive…and Larra - she went beyond the Wall with Bran." Sam had told him, years ago, that he had come across Bran and Hodor and Larra at the Night Fort…the mutiny had just happened at Craster's Keep, and he'd been set on avenging Jeor Mormont - and preventing scouts from Mance Rayder's army from finding the brothers who had betrayed them, feeding them information to the wildling army… He'd returned, and Sam had told him: And he'd grieved more, perhaps, for the fate of Larra and Bran and Hodor, far in the desolate North, than he had about Father, or Robb. He could only imagine their fates; but he _knew_ what happened to those who surrendered to the storm.

"Mance Rayder united the Free Folk to march south and flee the Night King's army; and Larra and Bran went north headed straight for them…" Sansa said thoughtfully, that stern, thoughtful bite to her tone. "Do you think Larra could fight her way through the dead - even our _Larra_?"

Jon smiled grimly, at the implication - that _their_ Larra was fierce beyond belief, a she-wolf of Winterfell if ever there was one…the faith in their sister… But against the Night King? Did Jon have any hope she and Bran had survived the true North with only a pair of direwolves and a simple giant?

"Sansa," he said, pained, because thinking about Larra hurt. "I'm not worried about the Night King. Not while the Wall still stands between us and the dead… I worry about you with _him_." Sansa's eyes locked on his, and he knew she understood. How could she not; they had been discussing Lord Baelish's presence at Winterfell for weeks. "I know he wants you. Men like him have a way of always getting what they want."

"If Littlefinger got what he wanted, you'd be burned alive on Dragonstone, Cersei and Daenerys Targaryen would tear each other to ribbons, and at the end of it, I'd be sat on a little stool gazing up lovingly at him on the Iron Throne with my belly fat with his heir," Sansa said tartly, making Jon raise his eyebrows. It had never been like Sansa to be blunt: She had always been a romantic, spending her afternoons daydreaming about handsome princes and the dozen babies she'd name after her favourite heroines from the songs. It wasn't easy, not with who she was now, not wrapped in her armour, with her simple braids and furs and stern beauty, but sometimes Jon _did_ forget; and it was jarring to hear this clever, curt, fierce Sansa speak plainly…but after what she had endured…

"_Sansa_," he winced, because it wasn't like her to talk like this, and he knew she had to have been thinking a lot about this, more than he'd thought. He was worried the Night King would destroy the North, the world: She was worried Littlefinger would destroy their family, just as it was rebuilding.

"You can be certain if we survive the Night King, you will not long survive Littlefinger," Sansa said plainly, her eyes not accusatory but solemn, warning. "You're in the way."

"And you're the key to the North," Jon said, gazing back at her. Anyone would be a fool not to realise how beautiful Sansa was; and how talented. While Jon prepared for war, she ruled Winterfell. He didn't want her worried about anything else, not him, not Littlefinger. Just the people. Their people, who _mattered_, after all was said and done. "I could take him south with me."

"No. I wouldn't let him anywhere near that Targaryen girl," Sansa said coolly. "He's far too dangerous to let him leave Winterfell!"

"Alright…then I'm trusting _you_ to do what you need to. The North is yours, remember that. You act in the North's interests. And you protect yourself, from any threat," Jon said solemnly, gazing into Sansa's eyes, as he handed back the knife. "Promise me…if you need to use it, you won't hesitate."

Sansa sighed, but accepted the knife back, relaxing slightly. He could tell just by the way she held it that she wasn't happy it rested in her grasp. She was not a natural swordswoman, and never would be; but he'd been determined she have some way of defending herself if it fell upon Sansa alone to keep herself alive. "I promise… Perhaps I shall ask Podrick for some private training; I watched him training with Lady Brienne on our way to the Wall. They are both sworn to me. And he is discreet."

Jon nodded slowly. He'd watched the quiet squire, determinedly training with Lady Brienne day and night. There was something quietly dignified about the way he just kept trying, no matter what, unfazed by setbacks, learning from them. Lady Brienne seemed content to have him around; and as Sansa said, he had journeyed with her to the Wall. Jon knew he had been squire to the Imp when Sansa was briefly married to him. That was interesting in itself; but Jon had no time to pick apart Sansa's marriage to Lord Tyrion, or question how his squire had ended up in the service of a Stormlord's daughter, so far North. "Aye, he seems a good man," Jon said, because he'd know a bad one a mile off. Sansa tucked the knife into her stocking again, her skirts billowing over her knees, and she rested against the settle, close to him, watching the fire burning low again. She didn't move to stoke the embers, and neither did he. He could almost fall asleep, and Sansa's breathing slowed, relaxed. He ruined it.

"Sansa…if I don't return…if there is no obsidian…_fire_ is the only way to fight the armies of the dead."

Sansa reached over, and placed her hand over his. Her fingers were long and white and elegant, unscarred; her nails were clean and neat. A lady's hands. But meticulous, and strong: How many gowns had she sewn, how many tunics had she gifted him, emblazoned with the Stark direwolf? Needles were her weapon: She used them to create armour, to illustrate warnings, show her story on her sleeves. They didn't look a traditional warrior's hands, but there was skill and precision in them, courage and tenacity.

She squeezed his hand, and turned to gaze at him solemnly, her eyes glinting with fervour. "We'll do it, Jon. We'll stop the Night King. We'll protect the North."

"I wouldn't entrust it to anyone else…" he said earnestly, placing his hand on top of hers and stroking his thumb tenderly. Rare moments like this, he cherished; how long had it been since he had contact like this with someone he loved? He remembered cuddling with Bran and Rickon; mussing Arya's hair; Larra sprawling over his bed annoying him, and burrowing under the covers during storms, cosy and content and protected… Never many memories of Sansa, but then, she'd been her mother's daughter, had learned disdain for Jon at Lady Catelyn's knee… He savoured their moments now. The embers burned low, twinkling like half-forgotten stars, and coolness started to seep through the chamber - not true cold; the natural hot-springs piped through the walls of Winterfell made it a refuge during the winter years, comfortable even in the worst snowstorms. But it was enough; and Jon had to pick his head up, finally exhausted, and rub his eyes. He gently roused Sansa from a doze, and they clambered off the settle, regretting it; it _was_ a very comfortable seat, and Jon was glad Sansa had commissioned it for the solar. It had been her second gift to him - the first, the cloak she had stitched for him, just like the one Father used to wear, the Stark sigil embossed on the leather. She'd had the settle made as somewhere they could sit and spend time together - somewhere that wasn't around a table spread with siege maps and war preparations. Something that reminded Sansa, at least, of cosy snowy evenings ensconced in warmth and candlelight and heavy blankets and the sound of Father's soft laugh and her mother humming songs of the Faith, her brothers and sister playing at the hearth, Robb's long legs outstretched as he and Theon laughed at a joke she was too young to understand… Jon had always been made to feel an imposter on nights like those; he often receded to his own chamber, where usually Larra would have found him, with a scroll from the library, a flagon of ale and a game for them to play, cuddled up together, the two bastards of Winterfell.

Larra and Robb and Father and Lady Catelyn and Bran and Rickon and Arya, even Theon - they were all _gone_.

There was no-one now but them. Just him and Sansa. It was theirs, now; their home. They had fought for it; and Sansa seemed determined to remind Jon that it _was_ his home, and always had been.

"Will you see me off in the morning?" he asked, pinching some of the candles still flickering stubbornly. He shouldn't use so many, he knew.

"Of course I will…" Sansa gazed at him, and Jon turned to look at her, tall and queenly, shrouded in her dark dress, her hair glinting like the dying firelight. Her expression was stark, almost tearful. "Promise you'll return."

"I promise."

"I really wish you didn't have to go…but I understand why you feel you must," Sansa finally acknowledged, on a long sigh, as if it cost her to admit it. "If this Targaryen girl is anything as prideful as Cersei, she would consider it an insult to be met by anyone less than the King in the North. She'll do all she can to undermine and manipulate you, Jon, intimidate you. She has Unsullied and Dothraki and dragons."

"I know."

"But the best weapon she has is between her legs."

"_Sansa_!" It caught him off-guard. But she looked stern and unrelenting, and he gaped at her.

"It's true. She can't have come this far in a world ruled by men without learning how to control them, and she can't use her dragons for delicate political negotiations," Sansa said sharply, any exhaustion forgotten: She seemed determined to impress the seriousness of this on him. "Never forget that you're in control; that no matter what she offers, or how she approaches you, what she demands of you - you let her believe she is manipulating you to get what she wants."

"I can't believe we're having this conversation - so what would you suggest I do?"

After a moment's consideration, Sansa gave him a measuring look, a sweep of her blue eyes up and down him, before they narrowed subtly. "Give her what she wants. Without giving her anything."

"You were in the capital too long; you're starting to pose riddles like the southerners." He frowned, though he knew what she was implying.

"I can't speak plainer: If she wants you in her bed hoping you'll cede the North, by all means, ride the dragon - but never forget why you're there," Sansa said, and Jon gaped, lost for words. He might even be blushing; he was glad at least the candles were almost extinguished.

"You don't half frighten me sometimes," he admitted wearily.

"Because you know I'm right."

"Aye. Sometimes I miss that little girl who sang and danced and dreamt of having a dozen babies in a sunlit southern castle…" He sighed, and reached forward, to take Sansa's hand. She gazed up at him, sorrowful of the girl that was lost, but stubborn. "But I prefer this woman before me. I know I've made the right choice - I want you to know that. No matter what happens, I don't regret going south, and I'd never second-guess leaving the North to you. Here."

And he handed her the document he'd kept hidden for weeks, until it was ready, until he could give it to her, without promises that might never be fulfilled. She'd had too many of those in her life.

"What's this?" He brought the last candle closer.

"I had Maester Wolkan draw it up. The Northern lords and ladies have all signed it and witnessed. I'm not just leaving you in charge while I'm gone. Sansa Stark, I hereby name you my heir. The heir to Winterfell, the heir to the Northern kingdom," Jon said solemnly. "In the event of my death, or my abdication, you will succeed me as Queen in the North. Copies have already been sent by raven to all the High Lords of Westeros." Sansa's lips parted, her eyes widening, and she blinked from Jon's face to the parchment sealed with the sigils of the Northern lords and ladies, Jon's scrawl beneath the Stark seal.

Her lips parted, and closed, and she blinked, and he thought her hands might be trembling, making the parchment shiver. He offered her a kind smile.

"Daenerys Targaryen kills me, and she'll have the She-Wolf of Winterfell to deal with - and after she's finished destroying the Night King, a dragon will seem like child's play," he said playfully, and Sansa's lips quivered toward a smile.

"You have such faith in me."

"That little girl I remember is gone," Jon said, sadly, because though they had never been close, though she had been a brat at times and a dreamer, he still regretted all that Sansa had gone through that had killed that innocent girl in her. "Sansa Stark will weather any storm, and show her strength through it."

He rubbed his face, and made his way to the door, unbolting it. The guard stood at attention beyond, a torch flickering in the brazier. "Jon…you've not changed," Sansa said, and Jon glanced over his shoulder at Sansa. "You're still just as brave and gentle and strong as I remember."

Jon smiled softly. It was one of the kindest things she had ever said to him.

"Let's get some rest, while we can," he said gruffly, a pain in his stomach at the thought of what tomorrow would bring. To leave Winterfell, to leave her…to play supplicant to a Targaryen…

A Targaryen queen.

The Mad King's daughter.

_The best weapon she has is between her legs_…

Larra had once teased that the sharpest blades are sheathed in the softest pouches.

Forbidden swords, a woman's greatest weapon - if she was denied an education - was her body. And she had three brothers: Larra had appreciated the way men thought, and how easily manipulated they were. She had been much more tongue-in-cheek about phrasing it than Sansa, but the principle was the same.

Women had to find other ways of getting what they wanted, without swords - or _dragons_ \- and few things were as effective in making men lose reason as lust.

They said the Dragon Queen was beautiful. In the back of his mind, Larra snorted that _powerful women always are beautiful, aren't they, even when they're not_.

If Sansa was right…a beautiful woman who knew her way around a man, and had no compunction about going after exactly what she wanted - no matter what got in the way…or who… He half wished he was being sent to treat with the Night King.

At least Jon knew exactly what he was getting with the White Walkers. Non-negotiable, wholesale slaughter. No politics, no pleas, no ancient history or guile…just death. It was comforting, to know that's all the Night King wanted. Just death. The end of all things.

Not games. Games and seduction and dragons and ancient oaths and madmen and promises he couldn't keep to the sister he desperately wanted to protect.

He was venturing south. He was headed into territory Sansa had gracefully navigated for years: How could she distil years of experience into a few days' preparation for him? Treating with Mance Rayder, negotiating with Stannis Baratheon were very different to meeting with the Mad King's daughter. There was too much history; too much at risk. And in spite of all that, he had to do it. He had to _try_…

"Goodnight, Sansa," he said softly, her hair glinting as she smiled softly and turned: He watched her long braid sway down her back like a wolf's tail as she walked away, and he couldn't help but think, the little girl of his memory was gone…and in her place, a direwolf prowled Winterfell, protecting her family, cunning and cautious and loyal.

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**A.N.**: I really wish we got to have the same kind of intimate scenes that we were spoiled with early on in the series, where it was simply two characters having meaningful conversations. I don't care about grand schemes for wars; or yet another subtitled monologue from Daenerys to faceless characters we don't care about; or twenty minutes of CGI dragonfire. I want to know what's going on in people's heads, I want to see how they're reaffirming old bonds. Damn it, I want exposition.


	7. Progress

**A.N.**: Thank you to everyone who has left such amazing reviews!

I've just learned that Sandor is a diminutive of Alexander, meaning 'defender of man' and that makes me so happy!

This chapter took me a while to write, I couldn't figure out how to get where I wanted! If there's too little dialogue, I apologise, but I wanted to show Sansa's mental process, more than anything.

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**Valyrian Steel**

_07_

_Progress_

* * *

"My lady?" The sound of footsteps stopped, and she sighed, drawing her gaze away from the gates, through which Jon had disappeared. Lord Royce stood before her, breastplate glinting in the insipid sunlight, his yellow cape wrapped around him for warmth, the hem stained by the snow and the mucky yard. Lord Royce was a guest of the King in the North; he was also earning his bed and board through contribution to the war-efforts.

The snow was falling gently, and she felt eyes upon her; in the yard below, Lord Baelish lurked. Always lurking, always watching. The Stark and Manderly banners barely out of view on the horizon of the misty moors, he was already plotting how to use Jon's absence to his advantage.

Sansa took a breath, and raised her chin, and met Lord Royce's eye. "Hopeful as I am that Jon will return to Winterfell, we must continue to prepare for the war as though he may not. I was not tutored in the arts of war, Lord Royce, as I am sure you will appreciate," she said, a tiny smile lingering at the corners of her lips, and Lord Royce gave her an indulgent half-smile, the closest he ever came to mirth. "As Lady of Winterfell, I must learn. I wish to know every detail about the siege preparations."

"Very good, my lady," Lord Royce inclined his head, ever courteous. If he felt a woman had no place at a war-council, he did not betray his thoughts. The truth of the matter was, they needed _everyone_ to work toward the common goal of defeating the Night King: And that meant that Sansa now had to learn, and learn very quickly, how to plan for war. "Shall we begin now?"

"Yes, I think so," Sansa agreed, letting out a gust of breath. She was no military strategist - no Robb. She had no experience in fighting, like Jon, no experience in defending anything - least of all herself. As Cersei had once muttered drunkenly to her in Maegor's Holdfast, '_l was taught to smile and sing and please_'… Sansa had been raised a lady. But she had learned how to rule. And her weapons were her mind, her words, her courtesy, the accumulation of her experiences. Under her influence, and while Jon was consumed with thoughts of the upcoming battle - and rightly so, if all he had told her was indeed true - Winterfell was starting to regain the look and feel of the castle, the _home_, she remembered. In spite of the war preparations and the threat of siege, the choke-hold of terror that held its grip on Winterfell for months was starting to ease.

The smallfolk were settling in; they were becoming comfortable. Content. They were working, of course, always working, but they talked happily amongst themselves as they worked, smiled at her as she strode past with Lord Royce. She heard some of them singing, and _laughter_. There had been none of that, before; she remembered it, during her childhood. Under her parents' rule, people had been cared for, and had known they were safe, valued, that they were protected, and provided for. They were starting to remember. There was a Stark in Winterfell once more.

And they _were_ recovering; they were regaining strength and confidence after the horrors they had endured… And yet, though the castle began to take on its old feeling of safety and familiarity, the war preparations could not be ignored. As the castle prepared for winter, so too it prepared for war, and Sansa couldn't help think ahead, as she was guided through the preparations, concealing how unsettling it was to realise she was completely underprepared. Her time in King's Landing had taught her that courtesy was her best asset for her own survival. She had learned that truth or lies in the context of her courtesies could be used as a weapon effective as Jon's Valyrian-steel sword - hadn't Cersei used such weapons to murder her father? Cersei had been Sansa's first instructor; Tyrion her second, indirectly; and Littlefinger the last, actively tutoring her. They had taught her to hone the natural instincts that had kept her alive, to wage wars of the mind, to play the game of thrones.

As she was guided through the castle, given a brief, first view of the War Council's plans to defend Winterfell against incursion, Sansa started to understand that they were not so very different, the game of thrones and the arts of war. The skills of courtesy and mental dexterity she had honed in King's Landing were directly applicable to military strategy, though, she acknowledged, perhaps not against the Night King, who shared none of the motivations of the likes of Cersei or Littlefinger or even Jon.

War was about _anticipation_. What was it Littlefinger had advised her weeks ago, about learning to fight every enemy in her mind, all of the time - to consider everyone her friend, everyone her enemy, to anticipate their motivations and reactions - that, to learn to think that way, there would come a time when everything that happened would eventually become something she had seen before. It sounded rather unexciting, but then perhaps there was safety and certainty in that.

Sansa couldn't help but think that the Night King was a far less dangerous enemy than the likes of Cersei or Daenerys Targaryen: His sole purpose was to destroy Man. No tricks, no politics, no games, just his purpose. They knew what he wanted, and how he would go about getting it. There was some comfort to knowing exactly what the enemy wanted. She knew what her enemies wanted. If they survived it, they still had to contend with Littlefinger, Cersei Lannister, and this new Dragon Queen. It was starting to look like the War of the Five Kings all over again, only with women fighting tooth and nail to take the Iron Throne - and destroy everything in their paths to get it.

If they were to survive the wars to come, if she did not want to rely on the wisdom of others to make her decisions for her, if Jon did not return, if…if she alone survived, Sansa needed to learn how to understand _war_ waged on a grander scale, on battlefields and in cities, war waged with weapons. And Lord Royce would teach her: To ignore a proud man was dangerous, but an experienced man put to work felt respected. And was more easily wielded as a weapon himself.

She was aware that few in Winterfell distrusted or despised Littlefinger more than Lord Royce, except for Sansa herself. She was also aware that since she had been complicit in concealing from the Lords Declarant of the Vale, of whom Lord Royce was paramount, that Littlefinger had murdered Lady Arryn, Littlefinger had what he needed to implicate Sansa if he so chose. He had what he needed, a half-truth to build lies upon to tear away everything she and Jon were building.

Sansa was certain what she had told Jon was correct: If they survived the Long Night, they would not long survive Littlefinger. _Jon_, King in the North, would not long survive Littlefinger.

Littlefinger, who had conspired to murder the Lord of the Vale with Lysa. Littlefinger, who had murdered Lady Arryn, who had manipulated Lord Arryn's heir to take control of the Vale, usurping regency from the Vale's most loyal families, engaging the Knights in open war against their better judgement…

If Littlefinger wanted to use her as a piece in his game, well…he underestimated just what lengths she would go to protect herself. Protect _Jon_. She knew his game. She knew what he wanted. Sansa knew that Littlefinger was just as dangerous now as he had always been, just as Cersei, so far to the south beyond snowdrifts and storms, was capable of doing more harm than they would ever dare contemplating. She was as ruthless as her father, and after Tommen's suicide, had nothing but her life to lose - and she would fight to the death for her survival. At the moment, Littlefinger was far more dangerous than Cersei; he had caution, patience and… '_Fight every battle everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you've seen before_…'

The advice he had given her, perhaps the first earnest insight he had entrusted to anyone into the way he viewed the world - the way in which he worked and the way in which he would rebuild the world in likeness of the one envisioned… Littlefinger was meticulous in crafting lies built upon terrible truths. She knew he wanted her; and he wanted the Iron Throne. She knew he was ruthless and meticulous and, as Jon had said the night before he departed Winterfell, Littlefinger got what he wanted.

She wondered very much whether Littlefinger thought she had the nerve to start playing the game against him. Whether, ensconced in her family home, the ghosts of her honourable parents drifting about the halls, he might believe she could be lulled once again into his confidence, once again used and manipulated to get what he wanted…

"I never did thank you, my lord," Sansa said, hours later, as she and Lord Royce sat in the Great Hall to take their evening meal, "for remaining at Winterfell after the Battle of the Bastards."

"A single battle does not define the war," Lord Royce advised her, his eyes shrewd as they rested on Littlefinger, turning his nose up at his companions. He was not, and never was, invited to dine at the high table with Jon and Sansa: They followed Father's practice of inviting strangers to dine beside them and learn of their lives - and of their contribution efforts to the care and keeping of the castle - and now, the war-effort.

"I had been led to believe that sometimes, that was indeed the case," Sansa frowned gently, watching the servants doling out stew. The hall was filled with the savoury scent of beef and barley stew, laden with the colourful root vegetables southerners considered fodder for animals, and which were essential to Northern households for their survival. The stew was rich and hearty and served with crusty sourdough bread. Northerners maintained austere households, and winter had come: Sansa would indulge no-one's vanity that they deserved choice cuts of meat - not when there was so little of it, and so far to stretch it. Stew and bread was more than most smallfolk could boast at their table, and it was good, flavourful food, rich and hearty and warmed the belly. It was what they needed; if they wanted rib of beef or spiced roast goose, or lobsters gently poached in butter, the guests of the King in the North were welcome to try and outrace the storms and head south.

"It happens, on occasion. One decisive victory may turn an army against its commanders, the chaos costs the war…or a significant loss among the commanders - Rhaegar Targaryen fell at the Trident and the war was lost for the loyalists… But as we've seen, my lady, there are many other forces at work during wartime beyond military campaigns," Lord Royce muttered heavily, alluding to the Red Wedding. She wondered for how long her family's tragedies would remain a warning to Westeros, one of the greatest horrors of recent history. The Red Wedding, and the Bombing of Baelor's Sept. Two defining moments of perhaps the last century, distilled within the same decade.

Sansa smiled gently. "All the same, it is not the responsibility of the Knights of the Vale to protect the North, my lord. No matter how much your presence is appreciated," she said. "Lord Arryn committed your aid to help my family reclaim Winterfell; you need not have remained so long."

"Lord Arryn was a great man. I never knew another Lord of the Vale until his son inherited the title," Lord Royce said staunchly, though Sansa heard the undercurrent of disappointment. Sansa's cousin had made little impact on Sansa when they had met, beyond her shame at smacking him for his brattishness - he had reminded her a little too much of the spoiled child she had once been. It was not truly his own fault; her Aunt Lysa had raised him as she saw fit…the same way her mother saw fit to raise her own children, ignoring the bastard she should have loved as a son.

The bastard who had avenged her. Had avenged them all.

The bastard who had stepped back, and acknowledged that no taunts and no loss of life on a battlefield, not even their brother's death, could measure up to the torment inflicted upon Sansa for months. He had stepped aside. The Northern way was the old way: Those who passed the sentence swung the sword. The Bastard of the Dreadfort had been sentenced to death by Sansa; Jon would not deprive her of her justice.

"It must grieve you, to see the horrors Lord Arryn's great House has endured recently," Sansa said, her eyes lingering on Littlefinger as a servant doled out stew for them both. Fragrant steam rose from her bowl, savoury and mouth-watering.

"Not the legacy such a man had earned," Lord Royce muttered grimly, averting his gaze to the trencher of warm sourdough bread being set between them by a servant, who placed a warmed earthen plate of small butter pats shaped as direwolves in front of Sansa. Dairy was rationed; it was an indulgence. She savoured it; she savoured her hearty meal, as any within the Hall or outside in the yards savoured theirs. She did not take it for granted that she was fed, and fed well; that she was warm, and _safe_. "Nor your own excellent parents' legacies. I am glad only that Lord and Lady Stark may rest easy in the seven heavens, knowing their legacy is preserved in you, and in your father's son."

"It would make Jon proud to hear you say that," Sansa said earnestly.

"He reminds me of your father a great deal," Lord Royce said heavily; he had known Sansa's father when he fostered at the Eyrie, had grown up with Ned Stark, and fought beside him during the Rebellion.

"And that would make Jon prouder still," Sansa smiled earnestly; she knew it was true. All Jon had wanted since childhood was to be looked at and beloved as Robb was by their father. Sansa sometimes believed grief at parting with his lover to honour the marriage vows with her own mother had caused Ned Stark to be so conscious of how he favoured his two eldest sons - or perhaps he did not wish to incur his wife's wrath toward Jon any more than it already was.

Both Sansa's brothers had been murdered in cold-blood; only Jon had returned.

And he had gone south…to meet with a Targaryen, just as their grandfather and uncle had so long ago.

"It is as much love for Ned Stark as respect for Lord Arryn's son that the Knights of the Vale remain the guests of the King in the North, my lady," Lord Royce said.

"And the North shall not forget that the Vale came to its aid in its moment of greatest need," Sansa assured Lord Royce. Lifting her spoon to her bowl, she gazed out over the Great Hall, the heads bowed over their bowls, the candles burning, people talking, and she rested her eyes on no-one in particular as she said, "Should the Vale ever find itself under threat, the North will do all in its power to protect the legacy of Lord Arryn."

Lord Royce was quiet for a few moments, as they both tucked into their stew. It was rich and the meat was tender; she could taste mustard and ale and bay leaves and herbs, and the gravy-soaked carrots melted in her mouth. She let Lord Royce enjoy the first few mouthfuls of stew, let him _think_ over what she had said. A servant poured them a cup of red wine each. It was not served in crystal but she did not think Lord Royce minded; the wine paired beautifully with the rich stew. She hoped she would sleep well tonight, after spending all day marching about the castle in the crisp air. She could finally breathe again.

"If I may speak plainly, my lady," Lord Royce said quietly, and she turned to him, lifting her cup of wine. "I do believe it beneficial that the Lord Protector of the Vale remain at Winterfell, as long as he is welcome, of course. The Lord of the Vale may yet live up to his father's legacy."

Sansa's smile was grim. "I believe I understand you, my lord. However, the Mockingbird still plays its clever little games in the Vale, as it attempts to do in the North, flitting about from person to person, learning to mimic their voices, until it can speak for them."

"A wonder no-one has yet cut out its tongue," Lord Royce grumbled, and Sansa smiled into her stew.

"Better to kill the beast than let it live in anguish," she said softly, and for some reason, she thought of Cersei. In killing Joffrey, Littlefinger had left a lioness wounded, vengeful, and far more dangerous because of it. Had the Tyrells wanted true power, they should never have left any Lannister alive: Cersei had always been the most dangerous of them, and now she sat upon the Iron Throne, queen in her own right after decades perched beside it, just out of reach. "A maimed beast is far more vicious."

"I am sure your lord cousin would be devastated if anything were to happen to his Uncle Petyr," Lord Royce said, and there was almost something snide in his tone that Sansa would not have believed if she had not heard it himself. The Knights of the Vale prided themselves on their honour, their reputations; but Littlefinger was dangerous, had inserted himself amongst the Vale and even now attempted to turn it against itself…as he had with Sansa's aunt and mother…

"And yet in every battle there are casualties," Sansa said grimly. "Best to ensure the losses do not cost us the war."

"What is one little mockingbird to an Eyrie of falcons?" Lord Royce asked airily, and Sansa smiled into her supper.

"Or to a direwolf?" she said, and smiled as the servant took away their empty bowls. "However…mockingbirds have been known to kill a falcon…sometimes they prefer to hunt trout."

Lord Royce stared at her, scowling, as the servants cleared away the savoury course. Few left anything in their bowls. She could see Lord Royce thinking it over: Realising what she implied - that his instincts when Lysa died were correct… "One does wish one's instincts had been confirmed months ago, my lady."

"I am ashamed to say that even direwolves may dread mockingbirds in certain circumstances," Sansa said honestly. "They are dangerous, after all, but perhaps the direwolf should have remembered she has fangs… Perhaps the mockingbird was not as powerful as she had dreaded… Perhaps she need not have been sold to be the plaything of torturers who collected wolf-pelts for gold."

"What is one little mockingbird to an Eyrie of falcons, and a pack of direwolves, even a small one?" Lord Royce asked, his face stormy. The Knights valued their honour: They had heard the whispers, the rumours, talk from the smallfolk about the atrocities committed to Lady Stark in her own home, atrocities so violent and traumatic, she had risked death in the snowstorms to flee to her brother at the Wall. No true knight would ever have betrayed Sansa: Any Knight would now avenge her honour. The honour Littlefinger had sold to her enemies. The honour she herself had avenged when she set loose the hounds.

Sansa raised her cup to clink it delicately against Lord Royce's. "What indeed, Lord Royce…"

A small dessert followed, flaky pastry stretched thin and baked until crisp, wrapped around apple sliced small, dotted with sugar and butter and spices and raisins, dusted with sugar. It was rich and flavoursome, delicate after the heavy stew, tangy and sweet at once, and reminded Sansa sadly of Margaery, who had, after all, given Sansa many lessons even as she manipulated her way closer to Joffrey, manoeuvring Sansa aside to take the crown. Still, she had been the closest Sansa could call to a friend in King's Landing, teaching her the high harp and even the new _pianoforte_ imported from Lys, coaxing her to join her cousins in embroidery and song, walking the dusty gardens of the Red Keep full of strange bird-calls and spiders and more than a few drunken fools.

Word had reached them of Tommen Baratheon's suicide, one raven among many. Flinging himself from a window of the Red Keep while the crater that had been Baelor's Great Sept still smouldered… The Lannisters who conspired to murder her family; the Tyrells who had the nerve to try to outmanoeuvre power from Cersei; the courtiers who mutely watched her torture at Joffrey's hands. Dust.

She was glad the Sept was gone, and the monsters within it. Her father had been murdered on its steps. She could not think of the Seven without thinking of her father's blood coating Ice as his body crumpled in pieces down the steps of the Sept.

It did not upset her nearly as much as she might have thought it would, thinking that Margaery was now no more than ash. Hadn't Sansa merely been a tool for Margaery to utilise, to get what she wanted? And yet…

Courteous and smiling, Sansa could never compare with Margaery's airy beauty, her bare arms and brazen prettiness, her overt sensuality paired with immaculate grace, sweet and tart and clever, concealing the thorns beneath soft petals, mesmerising and diverting, while the thorny vines encroached, entwining themselves unseen, clinging on for strength and support… But Sansa could emulate what she had learned from Margaery, to wield her smiles as weapons, make people fall in love with her, to…underestimate her. People had seen Margaery's bare arms and high breasts and been diverted from how cleverly Margaery manipulated people, with smiles and twinkling blue eyes utterly lacking any guile.

Had not people also consistently underestimated Sansa's ability to survive?

Here she was. At the high table at Winterfell, her home, regent for the King in the North. Named his heir…

It hurt her stomach, after the rich meal, in spite of the relief she felt after her layered conversation with Lord Royce, to think about Jon…that he had named her his heir, that he had _prepared_ that signed, sealed document without her knowledge - without Littlefinger even knowing about it… Had he? Or had Littlefinger kept quiet simply because it was in his interests to let Jon leave, naming Sansa heir to the North…because Sansa, as Queen in the North by her own right, was the first step in seven to claiming each of the great seats of Westeros… Remove Jon, and capitalise upon the strength of the Vale, backing his claim to Sansa…

She wondered, would Lord Baelish marry her beneath the weirwood tree? Clothe her in heavy white silk-velvet, drape a cloak of mockingbird feathers about her shoulders, and rape her as the snow fell outside the diamond-paned windows of Winterfell? She did not underestimate how dangerous Littlefinger was.

But perhaps he should not underestimate how silly Sansa had made herself appear to be, to survive King's Landing, how foolish and naïve. She had been, at times, she freely admitted it; she had been duped more than once, in spite of her warnings to herself since the afternoon her father's head rolled down the marble steps of Baelor's Sept.

Jon had told her to do anything that was necessary to protect herself, and the North: And Littlefinger was, at present, the most deadly enemy she had to account for, at least, the most immediate threat. If Jon died in the south, and she became Queen, it would not be long before the Northern lords would start murmuring amongst themselves that the North needed an heir, and wouldn't the Lord Protector of the Vale make a valuable ally in the wars to come against Cersei Lannister? They needed men…

If Jon fell to the Dragon Queen, Littlefinger would do his utmost to divert the war-efforts being arranged against the Night King; Sansa was certain Littlefinger would do all in his power to undermine Jon's warnings...

By the time Jon returned, Sansa would have dealt with Littlefinger.

She would not allow him to take what he wanted from her, or from the North. If Jon did not return, she would not allow Littlefinger to undo everything Jon risked his life for - risked his life, to protect them, protect _her_.

Littlefinger had promised to teach her how to _lie_, to play the game of thrones.

First Jon, and now Lord Royce, had started to teach her _military_ strategy. Lord Royce had taken her on a tour around the castle, the walls: He had shown her what was being done, but not only that, _why_, and why it was important certain things had been done. He told her of the debates in the library, experienced commanders arguing with the wildings over their own experiences, and Jon, who had settled certain disputes in such a way, the Northmen - and, indeed, Lord Royce - mistook him for Ned Stark.

She had been learning. All day, she learned to ask questions. To be critical. To consider things. The implications of certain decisions being made, certain strategies favoured over others. The strategies decided upon were tailored to their enemy, to the Night King. On a grander scale, battle preparations had to be _adaptable_.

She had to learn to use what she had to get what she wanted.

She knew what Littlefinger wanted: The Iron Throne, and Sansa, to enjoy breeding his heirs on.

Sansa would use that to get what she wanted from him. She knew how he worked. He had told her. She was his enemy, and his friend. He would use her to get what he wanted, as he already had, as he used everyone: He watched, he waited, he bided his time and he plotted, before he acted, always too many steps ahead to catch…

But direwolves were swift, and cunning.

And brutal.

The little bird that had fled King's Landing and flown north had morphed during its journey…a direwolf had padded quietly through the gates of Winterfell as a bloody battle ended, and ripped apart her enemy.

The bastard had raped and brutalised her; and Littlefinger had sold her to be raped and brutalised.

She did not forget.

She watched, she waited, she bided her time, plotting, gathering friends and enemies around her, meticulously crafting alliances and whispering the birth of ideas into the ears of would-be allies, shifting their allegiances from a man they distrusted to a woman they perhaps _wanted_. Even swathed in heavy black cloth, no matter how fine that black cloth was, Sansa knew she was desirable.

_I like her pretty_…

_He needed my face... _

_You're more beautiful than your mother ever was_…

_I know he wants you._

* * *

The bolt slid heavily into place; two guards stood outside the heavy, reinforced oak door. Her lady's maid had slipped away after arranging Sansa's hair into a neat plait down her back, taking her linens to be laundered, and her frayed petticoats to be hemmed. The diamond-paned windows were shuttered; the fire blazed, and candles made the chamber glow golden, warm and comforting. But Sansa could not relax, too anxious thinking of Jon's journey south, of the implications to herself and the North if he did not return, trying to decide how best to deal with Littlefinger, half-expecting a knock on her door in Jon's absence. Lord Baelish was cunning; he was also lustful of Sansa.

She wondered, at the back of her mind, whether it would matter to Lord Baelish that she had been broken in. If, as a brothel-keeper, Lord Baelish even preferred that she had been. He would - _had_ \- treated her as he did his whores, sold to be brutalised, though she had escaped with her life at least.

The crackle of the flames was lulling, but she couldn't help think of dragonfire, and her heart stuttered, her nerves making her jumpy, and she could not rest beneath the linen sheets and furs in what had once been her parents' bed, the bed in which she had been born, the bed in which she was certain her grandfather Rickard had once rested - before he went south and was burned alive by a Targaryen.

She worried for Jon.

She worried that he would return, and she could not protect him from Littlefinger. She worried that he would not return, and she would have to take on the role of Queen in the North, and do battle with their bannermen, to try and survive the Night King…to rebuild after the battles were won…_if_ they were won…to wage war against Cersei Lannister, or Daenerys Targaryen, whichever survived their conflict…

Yes, Sansa had learned to play the game from watching Cersei's ineptitude, from observing Tyrion's ruthlessness and consideration, from Margaery's vicious sweetness and guile. She had learned more than she realised, watching her parents rule Winterfell as she grew up and took lessons in embroidery and dancing from Septa Mordane - but she knew titbits, she understood implications and tried to remember things she had once heard Robb and Theon and Jon and Larra debating as her older siblings took complicated lessons on economics and strategy with Maester Luwin; she remembered Tyrion's preparations for the Blackwater; and the Tyrells making it known Margaery had brought with her engagement to Joffrey the food that kept them alive.

But she had never had any power; never had any influence, or responsibility - except to herself, to keep herself alive, in spite of everything flung at her.

Sansa had not been educated, had not been prepared to be the kind of Queen she now wanted to be. She knew how to become loved, and respected - she knew she was desired, even if most weren't as overt as Littlefinger about telling her - but if…_if_ Jon did not return, she would be Queen in the North. There was more to being Queen than feeding the smallfolk and keeping the respect of the nobles: An independent sovereign nation, she would have to start acting as Queen now, as if they would survive the war, as if they would have to rebuild, and rebuild without the (now diminished) might of the Iron Throne behind them.

The North had snatched back its independence with its bared teeth: Now, they had not only to defend that independence, but learn how to exist as an independent sovereign nation.

She needed to learn how to be, not just a Queen, but a _ruler_.

Where could she possibly start, at this late stage?

She had asked Maester Wolkan, days ago, that very question: she had wanted to assure Jon that while he prepared for war, she would do her part to support him as King in the North, whatever he needed. To be able to think of the things that he might overlook. When they had retaken Winterfell, Sansa had assured him that he was not doing so alone: They worked _together_… And they still worked together, though he was heading south. She had to think of all the things she knew he was too distracted to remember.

By the hour of the wolf, she was still restless; perhaps she had managed to snare a couple of hours' sleep, too anxious and unnerved and sick to her stomach at the prospect of what she had to do, terrified to even contemplate Jon's fate - she didn't know the Dragon Queen at all, and that unsettled her. She could plan for Cersei's malice; she could not anticipate a stranger's reactions…she had to learn how to.

Huffing, she flung back the furs and linens, wrapping her quilted nightgown around her over her simple linen shift, and unbolted the door. The torches had burned low, and flames flickered off the helmets of her guards.

"I should like to break my fast," she told one of them, and if she was more well-rested she would have addressed him by the name she remembered, but was too impatient and anxious to say, "and as soon as Maester Wolkan has risen for the day I will see him in the solar. If you could pass on the message that I wish to discuss the question I posed him days ago."

Dressing herself in the firelight, Sansa headed to the solar, a guard accompanying her, and took up his vigil outside the door.

She had work to do.

Long before the birds first started to chirp in the godswood, the windows still shuttered, a fire blazing, her hands shaking as she paced the room, Sansa started as a maid brought her breakfast. She insisted on modest portions: Porridge, thick and creamy in spite of the lack of dairy added to it, just oats and water as she had grown up with, and a soft-boiled egg and some toast cut into soldiers - the way her brothers used to take their eggs, the better to dunk toast into the runny golden yolk. A pot of chamomile and lavender tea warmed her trembling hands, and settled her overactive mind; her mother used to drink it when she was restless.

And she found that reading through Jon's papers soothed her: He had known she would come to the solar, and sit behind the desk in what had once been Father's chair. Jon had left everything neat, ordered into piles - Maester Wolkan's census, correspondence and raven-scrolls, the last of the ledgers, which still bore the scratchings of Lord Bolton's steward, and the neat hand of her sister before that, Larra Snow. Sansa sat, and examined the lines of the ledgers. Sums had never been her strong point: But she was determined to learn, and in combing meticulously through each line, she realised that the ledgers were merely a matter of organisation. Larra had known every line of the ledgers; loose leaves of parchment showed sums in Larra's hand, indicating calculations she had made in anticipation of Robb's march south to free Father. The cost of hosting the Northern lords, while Robb called the banners; arming and feeding Northmen…the cost to those left behind, the poor yield at harvest indicated by the comparatively lower sums annotated in Larra's hand from the taxes collected.

It had made her heart stutter, the first time she saw Larra's handwriting on the page, startling and unexpected. And it made Sansa's eyes burn to realise she and Larra, always so different, wrote their T's the same way, their F's and their J's - hadn't Septa Mordane instructed them both in handwriting?

Sansa had secretly enjoyed the afternoons Larra joined her and Arya for needlework and dancing. Especially Larra teasing Jon and Robb while they were forced to learn the steps of vigorous Northern folk-dances, the refined court dances popularised by the Reach, and the elegant waltzes of the Vale that Father sometimes, rarely, had come into the schoolroom to teach them. She still remembered dancing with her father. She remembered dancing with her brothers, and her sisters. She remembered enjoying her lessons with her older sister.

_Sansa…do you remember your lessons_?

She'd been a foolish girl annoyed by her strange, fierce little sister, but Septa Mordane had heard the clashes and known, ordered Sansa to bar her bedchamber door…she had _known_.

But Sansa remembered her lessons.

Her father, her mother…she knew Septa Mordane would be proud of her, too, of the woman she had become, and of the ruler she wanted to be.

She traced her fingers over Larra's handwriting, her eyes burning.

She used to disdain Larra for her interest in politics and economics and all of the things that men took for granted they were educated about; things Sansa, a lady, never should have had to concern herself with. But Larra had always been clever, always respected that she was a bastard, that with two true-born sisters she was unlikely to be married off well, and had contented herself with the knowledge that, long after Sansa's mother was dead, Larra would help their brothers' wives raise their children and rule the North when Robb and their brothers went off to war… Larra had insisted on a proper education, and Father had ensured she got it: She had been Maester Luwin's best student.

As the birds started to chirp, the servants came to open the shutters, and Sansa took a brief reprieve from the ledgers, sipping a fresh cup of tea, to gaze out of the window into the pale dawn. Snow was falling softly, and the sun was glinting beyond the walls of the castle, the castle that had not yet truly woken; everything felt sleepy, and soft. At least, it felt so; she knew that men were already out working on the great trench around the perimeter of the castle, carpenters working tirelessly on trebuchets to launch flaming projectiles into the enemy's midst.

Jon had told them that the dead had no war machines, no cavalry, and no archers. The living did not have to worry about projectiles being launched into their midst - but every man lost was another soldier in the Night King's army. The dead did not need weapons when they had numbers, when they themselves _were_ the weapons.

If she thought about it too much, it seemed impossible.

But she had to go on believing that it _was_ possible. For Jon's sake. For the sake of her people.

A soft knock on the door, and the timid Maester Wolkan emerged from the shadows, his arms laden with heavy tomes bound in leather. She gave him a gentle smile. He had always been kind…had done what little he was able to try and protect people at Winterfell, and, she was sure, the people of the Dreadfort. And that made her think…

"Good morning, Maester Wolkan," she said softly. "I have just spent a few hours combing through the ledgers. I'm rather cross-eyed. Would you join me in a cup of tea?"

"Thank you, my lady," he said gratefully. She knew he was not accustomed to kindness, consideration, that he had in fact lived his life in sheer terror: Sansa had been raised with a profound respect for the Maester of Winterfell. She had endured Grand Maester Pycelle, who made her skin crawl; while in King's Landing, any ailment Sansa had kept to herself, or had taken the advice of her lady's maid Shae to alleviate. Pycelle, who had been bought decades ago by Tywin Lannister; who served no-one but Tywin Lannister, and his own interests. Maester Wolkan reminded her of Maester Luwin. He was timid, yes, but clever and kind, and resilient, she had to think, after so long under the tyranny of the Dreadfort.

"The implication from the ledgers is that a great many of the improvements to Winterfell since the sack of the Ironborn have been paid for with Lannister gold," Sansa said softly, and the maester glanced uncertainly at her as she passed him the cup of tea. She considered it a delightful irony that what the Lannisters had fought so hard to destroy, they were paying for her and Jon to repair.

"Yes, my lady," he said softly. "The…payment was sent directly to Winterfell after the…"

"After the Red Wedding," Sansa said coolly, and the maester nodded. "And my former stepmother's weight in silver, I presume, was also sent directly to Winterfell's treasury by Lord Frey. Has the treasury of the Dreadfort been emptied?"

"The last of the wagons have crossed the White Knife, my lady, along with the contents of the granaries and larders."

"And the people?"

"Making their way, by wagon and on foot," Maester Wolkan said, "driving the livestock."

"Any hint of trouble upon their arrival, Maester, and I wish for the perpetrators to be dealt with swiftly, and justly," Sansa said coldly. "I do not wish to inspire fear but I shall not tolerate the kind of cruelty I know was prevalent throughout Bolton lands."

"Of course, my lady. If I may…people model their behaviour after the example of their leaders," Maester Wolkan said gently. "I do not believe you need fear the taint of the Dreadfort shall continue within the halls of Winterfell."

"Thank you, Maester," Sansa said, with a sad smile. "I…have not thanked you as I should have, for your tireless efforts after the armies reclaimed Winterfell. Your contributions made the transition seem almost seamless."

"I serve Winterfell, my lady," Maester Wolkan said, nodding slightly in deference.

"Well, I hope you have started to consider Winterfell your home," Sansa said. "Our former maester, Luwin, would appreciate all your efforts. You are an exceptional reflection on the Citadel, and a credit to Winterfell."

"Thank you, my lady," Maester Wolkan smiled. "I imagine those of the Dreadfort will come to regard Winterfell as their home as much as I have. It is a very different place to what we have become accustomed to."

"Under the Boltons, the truly abhorrent became accepted, and then it became commonplace - and celebrated," Sansa said coldly, trying and failing not to think of her husband, his father… She tried not to linger too long over the fate of Lady Walda who, despite being the daughter and wife of her family's murderers, had been a courteous, kind lady, who had always tried her best to be kind to Sansa. She had had her baby, they said, a little boy; she had been utterly entranced with him…for as many hours as Ramsay had allowed them both to live. It was not only justice for herself that Sansa unleashed Ramsay's hounds upon her husband; it was justice for Walda, and her tiny boy, and for Theon, and anyone Ramsay had ever tortured to death for sport. "A pity we cannot spare the men to tear down the Dreadfort. Thousands of years of rivalry, finally come to a brutal end…and they deserved their end, a thousand times over. I am glad few others had to suffer before Jon and I reclaimed our home, and the North."

"As am I, my lady," Maester Wolkan said sombrely.

"The war efforts have filled your hours, I am aware, Maester," Sansa said, encouraging the maester to drink his tea. She wished there were some little biscuits, so she didn't start sloshing from drinking too much tea to keep herself warm, but it was she who had insisted on rationing the flour. Her days of indulgence were gone. "However, I was hoping you had given consideration to the question I posed to you some days ago."

Maester Wolkan smiled, now, and his dark warm eyes crinkled at the corners, and for a moment, Sansa could be forgiven for seeing Maester Luwin's smile in his face.

"Indeed, I have, my lady," Maester Wolkan said, with subtle enthusiasm. "Although I cannot credit myself with the idea."

"And why ever not?"

"If I may show you, my lady…" The maester stood, approaching the table, and the stack of heavy books resting on it. "Maester Luwin was meticulous in his record-keeping, Lady Sansa. Especially where his observations concerned the education of your siblings. From their earliest childhood, Maester Luwin devised lessons and exercises to cultivate their learning. These…these are records of their progresses. These tomes in particular pertain to the education of Alarra Snow, my lady. She is your sister, isn't she?"

"Larra," Sansa murmured, her insides twisting painfully, her throat burning as she added, "She was Jon's twin… What did Maester Luwin teach her?"

Everything, apparently.

From the time she was four years old, Larra had taken daily lessons with Maester Luwin. The heavy tomes, tucked with loose sheaves of parchment with Larra's developing handwriting, her drawing skills, her comprehension of High Valyrian poetry, charted Maester Luwin's education of Alarra. He had outlined her _progresses_, her lessons in everything from gardening and botany to economics, trade and histories, complex mathematics and budgeting, foreign languages, strategy and patience, theology and woodworking, blacksmithing and cooking, military history, law and chivalry, sagas and Valyrian poetry, geography and High Valyrian, art and architecture and irrigation, siege defence and tickling trout, horsemanship and culture and customs of foreign lands.

Maester Luwin had annotated lesson-plans, referencing tomes in the library and mixing lessons inside with practical applications of knowledge in and around Winterfell. He had mixed practical out-of-doors experience with collaborative discussions in front of a fire, frequently making notes that his students had played cyvasse and knitted while they debated hypotheticals about definitive moments in history that had shaped the world in which they lived.

"Maesters are prone to praising themselves, my lady," Maester Wolkan said, with a touch of humour, "but I am truly in earnest when I say that Maester Luwin turned the education of your siblings into an art-form. His lessons are extraordinary, and a pleasure to read."

"My sister loved to learn," Sansa said softly. "I am sure a good reason for that is because she had such a wonderful teacher; or did Maester Luwin develop his lessons so wonderfully suited to her, because Larra was such a wonderful student?"

"Either way, I would never waste these lesson-plans," Maester Wolkan said fondly, and Sansa smiled.

"Perhaps we should put them into wider practice," she said softly. "Make a system of it. Larra and Maester Luwin would both have liked that. And we shall soon have a good many children getting underfoot and becoming boisterous and irritable, cooped up within the halls of the castle during the worst of the storms; it would do well to keep their minds engaged and excited by learning." Maester Wolkan chuckled softly. "Although…seven tomes? You've not had time to read all of them?"

"No, my lady; I began with the very last of them," Maester Wolkan told her. "When your brother Lord Robb Stark called his banners and went to war, Alarra Snow remained at Winterfell, acting as steward to your brother Brandon... Maester Luwin kept records of their discussions relating to the war efforts and the preparations for winter, taking into account continued contributions to the Night's Watch."

Sansa smiled to herself. Larra had done exactly what she knew she would be left to do: Rule Winterfell, and raise the children. Her mother had gone south, provoking war; but Larra had stayed to be a mother to Brandon and Rickon, to rule Winterfell in Robb's stead. And she had done the thing well; Sansa asked the Maester if he didn't mind leaving the tomes with her, and made herself comfortable on the settle before the fire, her feet up on the little embroidered stool, reading through some of Maester Luwin's last assessments of Larra's capable rule of Winterfell. He had made few notes after the Ironborn attack.

She set the heavy book down and sipped her cold tea, upset by one observation; the Ironborn had attacked Larra.

Larra had killed three Ironborn intending to rape her. She had ripped the throat out of one of the Ironborn with her teeth, gouged the eyes out of a second, and impaled the third with a meat-hook through the jaw - before Theon had attempted to subdue her, and been found by more Ironborn, knocked out cold and bloody but alive. Sansa's brothers had disappeared after that: Two farm-boys had been killed in their stead and passed off as Bran and Rickon, a young whore from Winter's Town too - after the Ironborn had tired of her, butchered and burned and strung up for the smallfolk to break their hearts over.

But the note, the very last words Maester Luwin had written, read simply: _They live!_

She knew Larra had always been fierce - had been trained with weapons alongside their brothers since she was a child - but to read it, in Maester Luwin's meticulous, careful print… Sansa could almost hear his voice inside her head, soft and careful and warm. It was all the more horrible to hear his voice telling her such awful things…

It had been a long time since Sansa had ventured to the other parts of the castle, where the ghosts of her family lingered, haunting. Before, she had not been permitted freedom from the single chamber in which Ramsay imprisoned her; now, she could not bear to see the destruction wrought by the Ironborn on her home. To see the direwolves guarding the crypt decapitated by the order of the petty Boltons made her blood boil, and her heart sink: She did not know what they would have had done to her siblings' chambers.

Separated from the rest of her siblings' chambers, as they always had been, Sansa was shocked to find that Larra's chamber was untouched.

It had survived the sacking of the Ironborn, and the scourge of the Boltons. It was just another heavy door and a room full of furniture. Larra's room had always been close to Jon's: Sansa could tell he had not set foot inside it since they reclaimed Winterfell. The dust was undisturbed.

But there it was. Larra's room. Her modest bed, laden with linens and furs, and a silk-lined wool throw with a border Sansa herself had helped Larra embroider with every kind of Northern flower they could find in the godswood and the glasshouses. A trunk at the foot of the bed with an upholstered lid, full of Larra's neatly-folded gowns - there were folds of dark fabric Sansa did not recognise, gowns Sansa had never seen her sister in. A work-table laden with Larra's sketches and paintings, covered in a layer of dust; the box of paints and brushes Lord Manderly had always gifted Larra on her name-day since she was a girl. A handsome rocking-chair beneath the diamond-paned window, and a woven basket full of yarn and embroidery hoops and folds of fabric, half-completed projects. Beside it, a tiny, upholstered footstool embroidered with snarling direwolves, on which Sansa vividly remembered Arya sitting as a girl, listening to Larra sing as she combed Arya's damp hair, the only one who could gentle Arya long enough to untangle her mane, and the spot where Rickon used to sit, and suck his thumb, leaning against Larra's legs as she told stories, the fire crackling as her knitting-needles clacked gently. Larra could knit without looking at her hands, like Old Nan.

A mobile of weirwood branches hung before the window, strung with ornaments and treasures Larra had collected, or was gifted: Sansa had always envied it. She dusted the rocking-chair and sank into it, against a feather-cushion embroidered with direwolves and winter roses, and gazed at the mobile. Larra's treasures caught the light, though they were dusty: Pretty things she had picked up on walks or while out hunting, interesting things their brothers had gifted her, presents from their bannermen. Pine-cones and conkers; silver bells strung up with velvet ribbon; sea-glass and beautiful shells and a shark tooth and a pearl from White Harbour; beads from old gowns and wooden carvings of direwolves; feathers and a small crystal geode; a small pendant carved from antler; a chunk of amber with a dragonfly trapped inside it; even an obsidian arrowhead; small bundles of dried herbs; and a silver-and-gold ring that caught Sansa's attention, remembering the burning envy that had overwhelmed her when Robert Baratheon presented Larra with it at feast.

The ring was silver-and-gold, the elegant band figured like a rearing golden stag and a silver direwolf, meeting to cradle a multi-faceted stone of obsidian striated with silver-quartz - a very rare stone, they had said.

In front of everyone, King Robert had told Larra that the ring had been intended for Lyanna Stark as a bride-gift: But Larra looked so like her, and was so vibrant, he couldn't bear to bury the ring in the dark with his beloved's bones. He wanted to see Larra wearing the ring, with flowers in her hair and the sun shining down upon her.

Queen Cersei had had Larra flogged for it.

Larra had still been healing when Sansa and Arya had left Winterfell with Arya.

Sansa's sister had laughed that the King had gifted her a ring; and the Queen had given her fine red ribbons.

Thinking back, Sansa didn't know how Larra had _laughed_.

The ring glinted, and chimed against the silver bell, when Sansa reached up to open the diamond-paned window, to let in sunlight and the scent of snow - a natural perfume Sansa had always associated with her sister, who had always smelled to her of sunlight and white winter flowers and heather in frost.

She sat in Larra's rocking-chair, examining the mobile in the sunlight, and silently wept.

* * *

**A.N.**: This one turned out to be longer than anticipated - I perhaps should have turned it into two chapters? Oh well. Please let me know what you think. Who else misses Maester Luwin and cries ugly tears every time they re-watch his final scene?


	8. Last Hearth

**A.N.**: I'm just reading up and apparently Greatjon Umber survived the Red Wedding but is imprisoned by House Frey: And Mors and Hother Whoresbane play the game with Roose and Stannis, while the Greatjon is still held hostage.

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_08_

_Last Hearth_

* * *

She had mistaken the flame-red for weirwood leaves, at first, vivid against the snow-covered evergreen of the ancient foret. A giant roared, brown-haired and wrapped in a skin, broken silver chains glinting at its wrists. House Umber's sigil, flying high over the great keep of Last Hearth, whipping and snapping in the high winds. The dawn had greeted them, cold and fair; she could not remember her last sunrise. Beyond the Wall, they had lingered in a perpetual twilight, the moon glowing off snowbanks and frozen lakes, but no sunlight. It had only perpetuated the timelessness Larra had become accustomed to beneath the weirwood.

Sharp and bright, the brittle sunlight filtered through the bent evergreen boughs laden with a mantle of fresh snow. Here and there, hellebores poked their heads out of the frozen underbrush, snow-white and fresh crisp green, occasionally a rich velvety purple, their petals downturned, resilient as any direwolf in the snows. Mist rose from a stream beside the weirwood fed by a hot-spring, glowing as the shards of sunlight caught it, making the ancient godswood eerier for it. Only birdsong punctuated the breathless, reverent silence of the godswood. There was no snow falling this morning; only stillness. It was lulling, almost gentle. Flashes of red darted about amid the snow-white and umber brown and evergreen; a worship of weirbirds drew her eye, and as the sun shone, they sang. Small songbirds, they were startling in their colouring, with vivid scarlet beaks and plumage, and snow-white faces; the females were snow-white. A group of the songbirds was called a _worship_ in the North: Sometimes the females would conceal their nests among the leaves of a weirwood, as if trying to get as close to the Old Gods as possible. Their song was beautiful: Larra hadn't heard it in years. She remembered few but the largest birds of prey living beyond the Wall.

It seemed even the wildlife had been fleeing the White Walkers. But then, hadn't the appearance of a direwolf in the woods heralded the beginning of the Starks' troubles? She remembered the beast in the snows, maggots crawling out of its eyes, its pups birthed after its death mewling and wriggling blindly for milk, the broken antler of a great stag lodged through their mother's jaw.

_Freak_, Theon Greyjoy had called it.

Jon had told Father his children were meant to have the pups. Three boys, two girls - the same as Ned Stark's children. An albino, pushed away by the others, for Jon: And the largest, wiliest and perhaps the kindest of them, eyes already open, a jet-black that had pounced on Larra's boot, claimed by Larra.

Their direwolves had been companions and occasional protectors ever since.

Larra didn't like to think how their lives would have unfolded had Father allowed the men to butcher the pups, all those years ago. Sansa and Arya had lost Lady and Nymeria before they even reached King's Landing: And Arya was still presumed dead. Larra knew hints of what Sansa had endured, but no more.

Brandon sat beneath the heart-tree, communing with memory: Larra padded through the virgin snows, a foot deep, and sang back to the weirbirds.

As a girl, she had learned to identify and mimic the song of every bird in the godswood. When she had nursed a harpy eagle to health, she had learned how to mimic its cries - and terrified her little brothers in the godswood, launching herself at them from the topmost boughs of trees, after Jon and Robb and Theon had wound them up that great harpy-eagles would swoop down and carry them off for dinner. She smiled to herself, watching the worship of weirbirds singing in chorus, responding to her own whistled song, remembering the black eye Bran had accidentally given her, thumping her out of pure reflex: She had to think she and her brothers had taken a few too many liberties frightening Bran and Arya.

Larra had argued to Father that they were teaching their younger siblings _resilience_.

Maester Luwin might have regretted teaching her what that meant, and why resilience was important in all aspects of her education, and her life.

She sighed, and thought about the little boy Bran used to be, the sweet-faced, clever, kind boy he had once been, the one who scuffed his boots and looked down every time he fibbed; and the young man he had become in the last fortnight alone, ever since his communion with the heart-tree in the weirwood grove beyond the Wall.

Bran her brother had become a different person since. She had noticed, the day they walked through the Wall; she had known, as Edd told her the truth of their family's tragedies, of which their own had been one of the first, and perhaps more certainly, the least. He had become Brandon the Broken, for the first time; there was something fundamentally fractured in Bran, and she did not mean his spine. He was not as she knew him to be anymore. She wondered how long it would take Bran to return to himself, if ever. If he would achieve that, before the end of her lifetime. And if there was anything she could do to speed up the process.

It would not do to have this stranger return to Winterfell with her: They needed someone _invested_. They needed _Bran_.

Regretfully, she turned away from the birdsong, padding through the snow to the heart-tree. Bran's eyes were as colourless as the weirwood tree behind him; there was a soft pink flush in his cheeks from the cold, his hands red from exposure as he pressed his palm to the trunk. It was an unsettling vision, that still, emotionless face and lifeless white eyes; not the brother she had raised.

Larra had risen before dawn, gaining perhaps three hours' rest. She never slept for long nowadays, not even beneath the weirwood, where the Children had assured her of their safety. She fell into restless dozes with fear clutching at her lungs, and she woke with terror gripping her throat. And constantly, _constantly_ the worry about Bran.

It had been conditioned into her: _Look after Bran_.

"Brandon," she said gently, and reached out to rub Bran's chest just beneath his throat. Over the last few days' travel, Bran had spent a good amount of time with his eyes colourless, communing; it had unnerved the brothers of the Watch, but they were becoming accustomed to him. There was no other choice: Until they reached Winterfell, they all had to muddle along. "Come on, it's time to come back. We must move on."

They had remained the Umbers' guests only overnight, to give the horses a rest, and the men a warm, dry place to lay their heads - a luxury. It had taken closer to ten days than a week to reach Last Hearth: A storm of sleet and lightning had cost them a day's travel and several terrified horses, thankfully hunkered down in an abandoned holdfast in the New Gift. But two brothers of the Night's Watch had died of sickness during the first few days' march. They had been coughing for years, Edd told them; the order to retreat to Winterfell had not brought their deaths nearer.

They had been burned where they fell. It was not respectful, they all knew, but they could not afford to linger.

Perhaps it was the pain in her side, the bruise still angry and flourishing purplish-red beneath her furs and obsidian chainmail, the weight of Dark Sister sheathed at her waist, the absence of Hodor and Summer, that settled dread in the pit of Larra's stomach. She had been so long beyond the protection of the Wall that she forgot the army of the dead chasing at her heels could not move past it. It would take a very long time before she did not dread looking over her shoulder, did not listen for snarls and groans on the wind. So long as the Wall held true, they could indulge in a feeling of relative safety.

_Relative_…

He was getting better at returning. He still didn't like it, though.

"I was learning," Brandon murmured in protest, his eyes dark once more.

"We're moving on. You can commune once you're settled in the wagon," she told him, half-reminded of Rickon. She had been his primary caregiver, his _mother_, since Lady Catelyn had left Winterfell for King's Landing on a fool's errand, never to return. It had fallen to Larra to discipline and coddle Rickon in equal measure, to raise him, to care for him, to love him, and teach him compassion, dignity and respect. It had fallen to her to gentle some of the wildness, without breaking it. She had learned a very specific way to address Rickon: Stern, unyielding, but kind. She used that mother's voice now, with Brandon, more than twice their brother's age when Rickon had been left wild and confused, fearful and lost. "You know I will not move you from the weirwood while you're communing; but the world does not stop while you dive into visions. I hope you were watching something illuminating."

"It was," said Brandon softly. He raised his dark eyes to her. "I shall show you, in a little while." Larra stared at Bran. _Show_ her?

Her stomach cramped, and she thought of Hodor.

Hodor, whose name was Wylis.

_Hold the door_…

Hodor's fate had given her more than one nightmare, and for more than one reason than simply becoming fodder in the Night King's army. They had _left_ him… Her gentle giant, simple and sweet, kind and considerate, easily frightened…they had _left_ him to a monstrous fate. They had abandoned him to save their lives.

And she believed Brandon, somehow, had caused their sweet giant's simple-mindedness.

The last words he had heard, _Hold the door_…truncated, didn't those three words sound similar to the only word Hodor ever spoke, had become known by?

Brandon sighed, his breath pluming before him, and folded his hands neatly in his lap. She gestured to the two Umber guards waiting for them beyond the grove of trees encircling the weirwood. She could carry Bran, if she had to: With grown men to share the burden, she chose to save her strength. They had a long ride ahead of them; they would push through until dusk before setting up camp. Dusk, and dinner. To eat every day was a luxury she was no longer accustomed to.

"You're not ready," said Brandon softly.

"No," Larra said brusquely. Sometimes she had to speak to him in her mother's voice, the same way she used to speak to little Rickon. Other times, she might have been spoken to by the oldest, wisest of maesters. She never knew which Brandon she would get. The reflective, dispassionate one unnerved her. "I don't think I am."

"We should say goodbye to our hosts," Brandon said, and the two guards approached him. Larra frowned at Brandon; his face betrayed nothing.

The ancient keep of Last Hearth was a long, low rectangle, the castle's namesake, an ancient stone hearth dominating the far wall, was engraved with scenes of battles from the Age of Heroes, when the Umbers had been petty-kings. The hearth itself, and the doors into the great keep were the most elaborate thing about the northernmost House: The Umbers' giant was carved into the huge oak doors, the heavy chains of their sigil made fanciful in the design of the locking mechanisms. Snarling giants' heads functioned as gargoyles, and ravens perching atop them glared down into the square yard at the foot of a sweeping flight of frozen steps up to the doors, which stood open but guarded, people bustling in and out.

Last Hearth was emptying, only a handful of people remaining - Edd murmured that the Watch called it a _skeleton _crew. The absolute least they could get away with, and yet still function. The bare bones.

Ned Umber, eleven years old, was one of the few who refused to leave, but he was doing his part, stood in the yard, ensuring his people had what they needed, and assuring others that he would be following as soon as the northern clans had gathered to Last Hearth before the final push to Winterfell. He would not leave them behind: He knew that, just as the Watch had stopped at Last Hearth before pushing ahead to Winterfell - a journey that may take them just as many days again, if not more - many others would need the protection of the castle if they were to survive.

The Umbers' sigil hung either side of the doors. Larra stared at them, whipping in the winds, briefly allowing herself to wonder whether, so many years ago, she should have fought more fiercely to bring Brandon and Rickon to Last Hearth after the Ironborn sacked Winterfell.

Crowfood and Whoresbane Umber stood in the yard with their great-great nephew, one huge and bearded, a patch of white leather worn an eye he had lost years before; the other, with a face like ice, implacable and unnerving. She remembered them vividly from her childhood, from feasts in her father's hall: The two eldest Umber uncles seemed more animated now than she could ever recall, and the look on Ned Umber's little face said he wasn't used to their enthusiasm.

A quiet word from Brandon when the Watch had been welcomed had altered their attitudes dramatically.

"_Ravens have been sent to all the great Houses in the North to retreat to Winterfell," Edd said, frowning at the number of people gathered in the hall. "The mountain clans will know to head to the Starks. You must prepare for the journey south."_

_Ned Umber spoke for his elderly uncles. "House Umber will not flee, when our people linger beyond our protection. Grain is due from our lesser lords, we must contribute."_

_Larra frowned gently. "The dead don't care about your larders, boy," she said sadly, staring at the young lad in the high chair between two monstrous uncles who made him look all the smaller. "Most of us will be dead long before the last of the winter rations must be tapped. You can be certain of that. You're the future of your House, my lord, a House that goes back to the Age of Heroes, unbroken."_

"_If this is to be the end of our House, we shall make such an end as to be worthy of legend. We may not survive the Night, but others shall; they will know it was House Umber who looked death in the eye and fought to give the North precious time, so they might live," Ned Umber said stoutly, lifting the little chin that would never know a hint of a whisker. Larra stared at him, and at the two wizened men flanking him, her face hard._

"_You put this in his head," she said coldly. Ned Umber was the same age Bran had been when he had been left the Stark in Winterfell by Robb, off to war to rescue Father. War turned boys into men before their time, either on the battlefield or climbing into their father's seat. But even a boy left to rule was still a boy; and echoed what he heard from those he respected. Had not Bran echoed Maester Luwin, and Larra herself?_

"_Umbers don't flee," growled Crowfood Umber, the chunk of obsidian nestled in his empty eye-socket glinting in the light of the hearth._

"_House Umber will not abandon its people," Ned Umber said determinedly, and she was impressed, for a second, that he held her gaze so unflinchingly. "We wait for the last of those who rely on our protection…" He sighed, and shifted uncomfortably in his grandfather's large seat. He winced, and glanced at Larra, his face so young, overwhelmed - but stubborn. She looked at him and remembered Bran, as he was. "I owe my life to the King in the North, my lady."_

_Crowfood Umber had committed men to Stannis Baratheon, on condition his brother was granted forgiveness: Whoresbane had sworn fealty to House Bolton, to protect the life of their nephew the Greatjon imprisoned at the Twins._

_On the battlefield outside Winterfell, Umber men had turned on the Bolton forces before they knew what was happening: The Bolton forces had penned in the Starks, and the Umbers had ruthlessly cut through the Boltons, just as the Knights of the Vale appeared on the horizon, to ride down the rest._

_Jon had forgiven House Umber their disloyalty, and more importantly, had absolved the young Lord Eddard Umber of any guilt or blame for his uncles' choices, as he had Lady Alys Karstark, niece of Cregan Karstark who had died on the battlefield outside Winterfell. Jon refused to snatch homes from young children, the same way his own brothers and sister had had their home taken from them because of the actions of a few ambitious, misguided men - from situations beyond their control._

"_From what I understand, Lord Umber, it is your uncles I must thank for my brother's life, as much as I must thank the Knights of the Vale and the Free Folk," Larra said softly, with a hint of a smile. She noted the two miserly old men's reactions at her mention of the Free Folk. She had purposely not called them wildlings, waiting for their reactions. Few families but the Starks had as much history with the wildings as House Umber, so close to the Wall. It was often they who had been called upon to raise banners and sent men North to fight incursions of Kings-Beyond-the-Wall. Their losses were many. Old Nan had told Larra, long ago, that Mors Umber's only daughter had been carried off by wildlings many years ago. Larra could not imagine Jon's support from the Umbers had been easily won, after he had allowed the last surviving Free Folk past the Wall, through Umber lands._

"_Free Folk," Mors Umber growled. He swept his one good eye over Larra's furs. "I'd heard the King in the North had bedded wildling whores and clothed himself in their furs to make war on them, but I didn't believe he'd allied with them 'til I saw them on the battlefield."_

"_And how did they look?" Larra asked coolly. "Flesh and blood, just as you are."_

"_No better than monsters, wrapped in their furs, using sharp sticks and their bare teeth to kill."_

"_We have both used our bare teeth to kill, my lord," Larra said fairly, a smile radiating from her eyes, and Mors Umber chuckled in spite of himself, "and as for the furs, how else do you survive the snows? You are hard men, my lords…I imagine the Free Folk made Umber men look like summer lads."_

"_They say your brother was murdered for his love for the wildling scum," said Whoresbane snidely, his eyes hard as flint. "Do you lie in the mud with wildlings, as he does?_"

_Larra's grin was not a smile; it bared her teeth in a threat every man recognised. She looked like a direwolf, and Mors Umber shifted uncomfortably in his seat, beard shimmering in the candlelight as he swallowed: He exchanged a brief look with his nephew, before turning to his brother they called Whoresbane for the pretty boy he had killed in Oldtown decades ago._

"_I thank you to mind your manners, Whoresbane," she said icily, drawing her shoulders back, glaring at the old man, remembering her lessons with Septa Mordane. "I am still my father's daughter, regardless of how I dress. Would you ask me such a thing before him?"_

"_My uncle craves your pardon, Lady Alarra," Ned Umber said plaintively, his voice so young, his eyes so wide. Whoresbane Umber said nothing, only glared at Larra, who gave him a very haughty look, and turned to give Ned Umber a half-smile she hoped was conciliatory._

_In truth, she had rutted in the mud with wildlings, and of the last few years, could remember nothing else that set her body afire and made her toes curl. That made her feel _alive_. They weren't to know that: And she was no longer in the land of the Free Folk. Down here, beyond the Wall, things were expected of her; and of how others treated her. She was Ned Stark's daughter, after all, if not lawfully born…as far as anyone knew…_

"_Never thought the Stark Kings would ally with murderers and rapers," Mors Umber growled, almost reflectively. There was a hint of accusation; but they all heard it._

"_The King in the North is brother to murderers and rapers, all in black," Larra said lightly, a challenge in her intense violet eyes._

"_Moyra was well-suited to life beyond the Wall," said a gentle voice, and all eyes went to the crippled boy nestled before the hearth in his furs, his long slender white fingers curled around a cup of steaming mulled wine, utterly disinterested in it. He gazed thoughtfully into the hearth, the flames dancing in his dark eyes, impenetrable and unfeeling as the obsidian filling Mors Umber's empty eye-socket. "She could have returned a dozen times over; she was free."_

_Mors Umber gaped for a moment. Was this the first time Mors Umber had heard his daughter's name on anyone's lips in decades? "You shame my daughter's name. Wildling filth raped and dishonoured my Moyra. She was not free."_

"_The Free Folk fought each other for the honour of claiming her as their spearwife," Brandon said, turning his pale face to Mors Umber, who stared at Bran as if held under some spell. The worst thing, Larra knew from personal experience, was the uncertainty. A tiny smile played at the corners of Brandon's lips. "And when they were finished hacking at each other, they had to fight her. She chose who had the honour to father her children, which is more than was ever offered her south of the Wall." Bran's smile grew softly, the thinly-veiled accusation levelled at Mors Umber, whose beard quivered as he ground his jaw. "Her sons are encamped at Winterfell under the King in the North's banner and protection. Bors, and Umber. Bors wields Moyra's great axe. Hoar and his spearwife Johnna fell at Hard Home, but their children survived to board Stannis Baratheon's ships - Moyra's grandsons Ivar and Hvitserk, and her granddaughters Freydis and Gudrun. They train with bow and spear at Winterfell even now."_

_Mors Umber's face had turned white as new snow. Beside him, the icy-faced Whoresbane betrayed no emotion._

_Sat in his grandfather's seat, young Ned Umber frowned, confused. He was so young, he might never have heard the stories. Brandon turned his dark eyes on little Ned. "Your cousins await you at Winterfell…and your grandfather rides the Kingsroad past White Harbour to return home."_

"_Jon?" Mors blurted._

"_After the Twins' Feast, those Northerners imprisoned within the bowels of the castles found themselves inexplicably released, armed and armoured and provisioned and have turned their feet homeward," Bran said softly. "The Twins now smoulder as ruins; my uncle has been reinstated as Lord of the Riverlands, in open rebellion of the Iron Throne. The Greatjon seeks forgiveness at Winterfell, for his failure in protecting the King in the North he named and swore his life to…"_

A wagon-train already wound out of the yard out of sight through the ancient forest, carrying grain and supplies and the vulnerable, with livestock driven on foot, flocks of grey Northern geese and pure white ducks using the channels in the snow made by wagons, by hardy, shaggy orangey-red cattle and Northern Blacknose sheep with their fluffy white coats, whose wool was particularly prized for its softness and excellent dye retention. The Umbers also boasted a breeding herd of aurochs; the bull was complacent, enormous, and _slow_: Larra saw Edd looking at him sadly, and Edd had told the story of one of his brothers, Grenn, nicknamed the Aurochs, who had been tasked by Jon with five of their brothers to hold the gate at Castle Black against the last giants. He had sworn his life to the Watch: That night, he given it, stopping a giant.

There was a song in there, Larra was sure: She just hadn't the heart to set to writing it.

The Umber men carried Brandon to a covered wagon. Small children and young mothers were already nestled in the straw, with blankets and clothes bundled up: Brandon reached out and opened the fastenings of a raven cage, there by his request. The bird cawed, once, and hopped out onto Bran's legs, perching on his knee. Brandon smiled contentedly, and stroked the glossy black feathers.

Larra stared at a baby.

In its mother's arms, it had wriggled an arm free of its swaddling. Enormous blue eyes shone with innate joy as it gave her a gummy, wet smile, its fingers opening and closing like petals in the sunlight, tiny and dimpled, waving toward her. The baby could not have been more than a few months old.

Larra reached her finger out, offering it to the baby; it grinned toothlessly, focusing with effort on hand, which it grabbed, cooing and gurgling as it wrapped its tiny little strong fingers around her long, bruised, scarred one. The contrast of her hands, covered in webs of pink and white scars, her middle-fingernail blackened by bruising, the skin rough and calloused, with the baby's soft, unblemished hand on hers… Once, her hands had been like ivory, clean and meticulous; she used to keep her nails. She used to do a great many things.

She also never thought she would ever see another baby.

Here she was, at Last Hearth with Brandon and Meera, a blue-eyed baby grinning at her, and Northmen fleeing south to Winterfell to fight the White Walkers she had outpaced. There was much to be thankful for.

In that moment, staring at the baby's open, joyful face, Larra's eyes burned, and she allowed her lips to twitch toward a smile.

She leaned forward, hiding the tears that dripped hotly to her cheeks, as she kissed the baby's tiny hand, freeing herself from its strong grip. She smiled and stroked its cheeks, making it gurgle and smile gummily, kicking its legs, dimpling at her.

Larra shrank away, heart-broken.

She asked one of the women to keep an eye on Brandon, and left the wagon. Meera caught her eye briefly, and mounted a hardy pony to follow Brandon.

Larra would ride beside Edd. She needed some distance.

She needed to train herself to step away, now that she could.

Now that it was not her, and her alone.

Jon had not been at Castle Black, but because of him they had gained hundreds of brothers. Because of him, they had a guard of thousands to journey to Winterfell with.

It would make for slow going, but it was worth the annoyance.

Larra hadn't been near so many people in a very long time; proximity to the brothers of the Night's Watch were the first crowds, the first people besides Bran and Hodor and Meera she had mingled with in years.

She had not forgotten her courtesies, but it would have been the easiest thing in the world. To forget who she was, where she had come from, to forget that she had a family, and was clever and highly educated…because up there…beyond the Wall, none of that had mattered. Her mind had been stagnating for years, as her body had become more and more emaciated, learning to live purely on instinct alone: Find shelter, find food, _survive_.

It was good to be among people again.

Even as she knew a good many of them would die, if not all, before the Dawn came again.

A groom led a fine mare across the yard, black as night, her coat glossy, shimmering like fine velvet, tall, strong but elegant - and one of the Umbers' prized mares, she was certain of it. To breed on her would create stunning foals. With the right sire, she would breed fierce coursers, perhaps even a destrier; she had the height, strong hindquarters and a muscular back. Her face was beautiful, too, with the inky eyes Larra had always loved in horses, dark hair falling into them. She snorted as she was across the yard, stamping her feet irritably and tossing her head; she had fire, Larra could tell, gazing at the horse.

"She's one of our finest mares, my lady," said Ned, and Larra turned from the mare to find Ned Umber at her elbow. She hadn't realised that she had forgotten how little Rickon was: He would always appear under her feet when she was least expecting him to be there. It made her stomach hurt to look down and gaze into Ned Umber's young face.

"Lord Umber," Larra murmured, dipping a polite curtsy that lost some of its elegance due to her furs. "She's beautiful," Larra added, reaching out to stroke her knuckles gently down the mare's elegant nose. She stamped her foot, snorted, but nuzzled her nose closer, letting Larra stroke her face, scenting Larra's furs for food.

"Her name is Black Alys," said Ned quietly, and Larra noticed he stood a little behind her, watching the mare carefully. "She does bite, but I think she likes you."

"We all nip when we're afraid or annoyed, hey?" Larra murmured, shushing Black Alys gently as she snorted, tossing her head, and stroked the horse's face tenderly. The Watch had given her a horse, though Larra craved riding a truly superb mount again: She had always loved to ride, had been as natural on horseback as a centaur on their four legs. And Black Alys was a gorgeous mount.

"My uncles say the stable-master will have her put down if they can't break her," Ned said sadly, gazing watchfully at the mare. "She's too wilful."

"Wild things should never be broken," Larra murmured, almost to herself, turning to glance down at Ned. He seemed very young, staring wistfully at the admittedly rather haughty, terrifying-looking mare, whose hoof was the size of his head. "Wild things should be free…but sometimes…sometimes they can be gentled, befriended."

"Like your direwolf," Ned Umber said, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "I've seen King Jon's direwolf, Ghost, in the godswood at Winterfell. He looks like a weirwood. Do you think you could befriend Black Alys?" Larra murmured under her breath to the horse, praising her, letting her know her voice.

"We _are_ friends," Larra said softly, smiling gently to herself as she stroked the horse's face and neck. Something uncoiled in the pit of her stomach, a tension loosening, and Larra sighed, stroking Black Alys's neck. This was familiar. Admiring fine horses in the yard of a holdfast, the sounds of work echoing around her… "Sometimes we just need to take the time to introduce ourselves…learn some of each other's secrets…"

"Do horses have secrets?" Ned asked, and Larra turned a mysterious smile on him.

"Of course…every creature in the world has secrets… There is a legend in the North, that sometimes mighty warriors who fall in battle are reborn as great horses," Larra said gently. It had always been one of her favourite legends of Old Nan's. She used to think her gelding was Ser Arthur Dayne, reborn to be her companion and protector as she hunted on horseback through the wolfswood. She had always been half in love with the Sword of the Morning, for all her disdain of Sansa's wholehearted belief in songs and legends.

"Do you think my father might be reborn as a great horse?" Ned asked curiously.

"The Smalljon? A destrier, absolutely! Nineteen hands, at the very least," Larra smiled tiredly, and the little boy beamed, standing up just a little straighter.

Little Lord Umber glanced around, and leaned in closer uncertainly, after checking his uncles were across the yard. He said conspiratorially, "They say you killed Ironborn with your bare teeth to protect your brothers."

Larra blinked. It seemed so long ago now. She had still worn her wool dress and hose then, not the furs she shrouded herself in now. Rickon was a boy, Brandon, barely older. They had not yet met Meera and Jojen, not yet ventured so far north that going beyond the Wall had ever entered Bran's mind… She had murdered Ironborn who attacked her. Three of them. Sometimes she still tasted their blood in her mouth; marvelled how easily eyeballs burst beneath her fingernails; how the sound of metal grinding against jawbone had reverberated up her arm on impact.

"Yes, my lord," she murmured, watching the boy warily. Ned's eyes widened; she wondered how he would react to his father's, grandfather's and uncles' battlefield feats. They said the Smalljon lost his life to two swings of an axe - only after overturning a table to shield the wounded King in the North.

"My uncles said King Jon's direwolf fought beside him on the battlefield," Ned Umber said, his eyes sparking with excitement. "White and blood-red as if the gods' wills were made flesh and blood in the Starks' sigil."

"Their will _was_ made known that morning," Larra mused. And it was certainly fateful that the Stark and Snow children had found those seven pups in the wolfswood that horrible misty day when Bran had witnessed his first execution unblinkingly, and in spite of his mother's protests. The execution of a Night's Watchman who swore to his last breath that he saw the White Walkers…

"My uncles used to tell me the King in the North's sister was fiercer than any direwolf."

"That is high praise indeed. To have the respect of warriors like your uncles means much," Larra said honestly: She had always known that her family would not get far without the respect bordering reverence of their bannermen. Only Bran's dreams and insistence had muted her arguments to take Bran and Rickon to the Umbers, and beg their protection.

Ned Umber flashed her a quick, shy smile, and he gave her a furtive glance before turning and gesturing at someone. He had to repeat the gesture a few times: A small boy joined him reluctantly. Where Ned Umber's eyes were pale, with soft brown hair, the other boy was dark-haired with fierce black eyes - Larra stared at him, reminded so vividly of young Bran, of young _Jon_, that her heart stuttered. He bore no resemblance to wild little Rickon at all, but…it was the youth in his face, the mercurial stubbornness in his chin, suspicion in his eyes, and a deep sense of brotherly love and loyalty when he gazed at young Ned Umber that made Larra's stomach hurt with homesickness for the family she had lost, the brothers she missed. There was some resemblance between the two boys, in the shape of their eyes and noses, the curve of their ears, though the younger boy's face was slimmer, and Larra couldn't help think of the Stark women who had married into House Umber over the centuries, with their slender oval faces and solemn beauty. She realised the other boy must be quite a bit younger than Ned; though he was nearly the same height.

"Who is this young warrior?" she asked gently, and the younger boy stood up straighter, puffing out his chest proudly, showing the Umber sigil stitched lovingly onto the breast of his fur-trimmed cloak, wrapped over a leather-studded brigandine Northmen favoured in war and especially in winter, and a quilted tunic beneath that for warmth and protection from the armour. He was a boy dressed for the battlefield; he lacked only weapons.

"This is Little Jon." Another stutter. Of course, Jon was a common name among the Umbers: his father and grandfather both bore the name. It was not unique to _her_ Jon. Though looking at him, he could have been her twin's miniature. "He's my brother. And he's seven."

"Seven? I almost took you for a man," Larra said, reaching out to muss his hair, the way Jon used to muss their younger siblings' hair, and Little Jon grinned impishly for a brief moment. "I'd wager you'll be taller than the Greatjon by the time you're grown."

"My brother and I wish to make the mare a gift to you, my lady," said Ned Umber, his eyes earnest as he gazed up at her. Larra blinked. To give a guest a gift as they left the safety of your holdfast signalled one of two things: Either a token of friendship, or a declaration that the safety of guest-right had ended with their departure.

She had been a guest of the Umbers only overnight, refusing a feather-bed to sit by the hearth all night, dozing by the fire. And the Umbers had sworn their fealty to Jon at Winterfell - Mors, Hother and Ned alike, the joint-castellans and assumed Lord of Last Hearth with the Greatjon's imprisonment.

A token, then.

"The King in the North placed me under his protection, my lady, and my brother as well. We owe our lives to him. I hope I do not insult him or you in asking this favour, to ask your protection for my brother until you reach Winterfell."

Larra stared at Little Jon Umber, her heart breaking. She looked at him and saw Rickon; she saw Bran. _You must protect them. You're the only one who can…_ She flinched, thinking of Rickon's brutal death; and her heart throbbed, regretting the changes in Brandon that had made him unrecognisable to her.

Still…Brandon was alive, wasn't he? What she had committed herself to, keeping him alive, she had succeeded in. It was a simple goal, really: One that had consumed her every waking moment for years.

What she attempted, she conquered.

She had once overheard Maester Luwin telling her father that. She remembered it now, and it still filled her with pride: She looked at the guileless little face of Ned Umber, looked at the dark eyes of Little Jon, and was filled with grief at brothers she had lost, and the fates of these two boys before her.

They would never see each other again.

She sank to a knee, putting herself at a level with Ned Umber, her brother's bannerman. A boy. A boy who wanted to know his brother would be safe, and looked after. Who was willingly yielding his brother to Larra's care because of the respect Ned himself had for Larra's own brother, his king, who had cloaked him in his protection…

"One thing I excel at beyond all others, my lord," she said, her voice low to stop it breaking, "is protecting little brothers."

She gazed into Ned Umber's eyes, and conflict flickered across his face: Fear of the unknown, grief at parting, stubbornness at refusing to give in to his dread or his own desires to keep his brother close, where he would not be safe, relief, gratitude, and sadness. Perhaps Ned knew what she did; that he would never see his little brother again.

"I'm not going!" Little Jon cried vehemently, his face furious and beseeching at once as only a child's could be. He implored his brother, "I have to protect you!"

"You're my little brother, Jon, _I_ protect _you_," Ned said with feeling, his hands on Little Jon's shoulders. Though younger, Little Jon was already nearing his brother's height, spindly-legged and broad-shouldered like a direwolf pup growing too fast. Larra's heart broke to see them, the rhyme of memory ringing in her mind. "Father told me so before he went off to war with King Robb. You have to go to Winterfell: You'll learn how to rule Last Hearth after me, and they'll train you as a warrior."

Little Jon's breath hitched, his dark eyes widening. "A warrior like Father?"

"Even _fiercer_ than Father, I'll bet," Ned Umber grinned, and for a second, mirth and cunning flashed across the brothers' faces. Ned reached for something, and presented his little brother with a small, shining, fresh-forged hatchet, and a bone-handled hunting knife. "I've had a hatchet made for you. I know you like throwing Uncle's. And a hunting-knife for your very own. The handle's made from _bear_-bone."

Larra, still sunk on one knee, turned to Little Jon. "Do you know how to use that? No?" she asked, and Little Jon gave her a reluctant look, a thoughtful frown. He looked sternly at the weapons strapped to her, the jewelled hilt of the sword belted at her waist, and seemed to decide she was worthy. He shook his head. "We shall have to remedy that. Lady Meera over there could teach you to shoot an arrow right into a snow-hare's eye at forty paces if you ask her sweetly." She nodded over at Meera, who had mounted her pony, looking tired but less gaunt after ten days of Hobb's cooking - it was astonishing what the cook of Castle Black could dream up out of the kitchen-tent.

Every day, she and Meera and Bran ate a little more than their last meal; slowly, ever so slowly, they were starting to remind their bodies what proper food tasted like, and every day, Larra could eat a little more. To begin with, the food had been so rich it hurt her stomach to eat it: Bread was utterly foreign now.

Before they had left Castle Black, Meera had eaten her egg, fried in butter, with a rasher of bacon and some blood-sausage: It was the last time Larra could remember Meera truly enjoying anything. She hadn't been able to finish it; they'd shared it. And the rich food had seemed to turn to ash in their mouths as they thought of those who could not share their meal. Hodor, Jojen. Uncle Benjen. Father. Robb. Rickon. The list would get longer before the end.

She turned to Ned Umber, and saw Bran in the tower, embracing Rickon for the last time.

Bran, who could still _see_ Rickon, if he chose.

Larra gazed into Ned Umber's face. "You're a young boy, and already a good man, Ned Umber," she told him solemnly. "Until the Dawn comes, I will not let Jon out of my sight."

"I wish you good fortune, in the wars to come, my lady."

* * *

**A.N.**: I felt Ned Umber deserved more. I wanted to show Larra taking a step away from being Bran's primary caregiver - I felt that she needs to make that conscious separation for her own health. And shows she won't tolerate him being what he becomes in Season 8.

I also wanted to show Bran actually using his powers to start playing the _game_, even if it's subtle, and unnerves people more than anything.


	9. Playing with Dolls

**A.N.**: I refuse to believe House Tyrell became extinct after Cersei blew up the Sept, with the death of Margaery and Loras. Firstly they wrote out their two siblings; and Olenna had more than one child. So, survivors. Trainees for Olenna to shape.

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_09_

_Playing with Dolls_

* * *

_I haven't played with dolls in years_…

Sansa sat at her dressing-table, tiny pots laid out, some of them scented prettily, reminding her of a bouquet of Tyrell roses drifting about the gardens in King's Landing, candlelight glinting off the mirror before her. Her face was the same as it had been in King's Landing, though a little older admittedly. She had become a woman during her years as a hostage. There was a glint of steel in her eyes now that she had never developed through all her torments under Joffrey's tyranny. She sighed, setting down her fine silver-handled brush with its soft bristles, and savoured the quiet crackling of the fire in the great hearth, the snap and pop of the white-hot logs and the soft hiss of chestnuts as they cooked in the embers, a treat to warm her as she worked late into the night in the privacy of her chamber, without her constricting gowns, without her corseting and braids.

In her parents' chamber, hers now due to Jon's thoughtfulness and sense of guilt at taking Sansa's place as heir of Winterfell, Sansa allowed herself rare moments of peace. She left her hair unbound, past her waist, and closed her eyes, savouring the quiet, and the warmth, tiny snow-kisses from the window left open a crack dusting her skin; her father could never breathe with the rooms closed up and stuffy, and she had found that being in the North again, she preferred the crisp air more than unbearable heat. The smell of snow was home; it was also freedom. The snow had saved her from the fall; had also slowed down those hunting her. Eyes closed, she reached in front of her, her fingertips brushing against the tiny figures arranged neatly before her mirror.

Reading Maester Luwin's progresses on Larra's education, Sansa had discovered that a good deal of her siblings' learning in matters of war had come from a game. Cyvasse. She had heard of it in King's Landing, of course, but there was no one at court who had wanted to be seen to be befriending Sansa Stark to play it with, let alone learn the game - until Margaery, of course, and she had hardly needed little figures and a carved board with moveable tiles when she was so adept at manipulating people wherever she wanted them to be, moving deftly across a continent to claim what she wanted. Yes, Margaery had been skilled at the _game_; the Tyrells had underestimated Cersei's careless wrath. Robb had been adept at war; but had forgotten the principles of the _game_ itself. There was always more going on that the board did not show.

Sansa had been learning how to play cyvasse.

She had discovered in Maester Luwin's progresses that he had taught Larra and their brothers carpentry, as a means of teaching them the value of craftsmanship; and they had used their skills to make their own set of cyvasse pieces. But the Knight of the Vale who had professed himself a lover of cyvasse and committed an hour every day to playing with Sansa in the solar with a cup of tea and a biscuit, had told her that the sets her siblings had carved were utterly unique. A standard cyvasse set consisted of various quantities of ten standard pieces: Rabble, spearmen, crossbowmen, light-horse, heavy-horse, trebuchet, catapult, dragons, elephants and kings. Her siblings' cyvasse sets were utterly unique, and tailored to their lessons of history, geography, economics, trade, strategy and religion, among other things. Each of their campaigns had been meticulously recorded by her siblings in one small tome Maester Wolkan had unearthed from the Maester's Tower, from the very earliest lessons in basic strategy to the last, most complex campaigns her siblings had spent months planning and completing. There were also unique pieces Maester Wolkan had had carved by Winterfell carpenters: With each throw of the dice, new obstacles and challenges altered the wars, and her siblings had had to adjust their strategies. Sometimes they had started with a familiar scenario, the sequence of events leading up to significant conflicts, and how they would have reacted with their benefit of hindsight, and how those strategies played out; how they might have affected the world in which they lived, if they would have lived at all.

With each new campaign, Sansa's siblings had created new pieces for their cyvasse sets, and Maester Luwin had created more complex obstacles, introduced new challenges. Sometimes they had been forced to consider how to rebuild _after_ a conflict, using what little resources remained, considering their allies. Maester Wolkan had presented her the cyvasse sets where Maester Luwin had always kept them: in a tall, slender inlaid chest that Maester Luwin had had made especially, half Sansa's height, a door concealing several drawers. Each of her siblings had one drawer where their pieces were stored together, nestled in velvet; there were other drawers full of the carved and painted tiles they used, and added to with each campaign. The lowest drawer contained the stratagems her siblings had written in response to each campaign, meticulous planning, including vulnerabilities, allies, neutral regions and potential alliances, ledgers, and the phrase Jon had mentioned before he left Winterfell - Larra's _designated survivors_.

The Knight of the Vale had taken to reading the Maester's reflections and her siblings' stratagems, absolutely infatuated with the meticulous devotion to the art of learning this altered version of cyvasse - its place in their education and the real-world application that had made Robb Stark undefeated in the field of battle when he was murdered; and Jon, a Night's Watch steward, King of the North allied with the Free Folk for the first time in thousands of years.

Sansa had taken her favourite pieces from each of her siblings' cyvasse sets, and they stood side by side in front of her mirror, in pride of place. The tiny ship with a kraken figurehead on the bow, the tiniest cotton sail stitched with a kraken sigil - she recognised Larra's stitching, though it was Theon's piece. Robb had a running direwolf carved from boar tusk, possibly the first boar he had killed himself on a hunt. Jon had a faceless horseman charred by the fire to appear all in black: He had always known he would join the Night's Watch, to die in anonymity.

And Larra…Larra's pieces intrigued Sansa and her Knight of the Vale equally, the Knight because they were so unusual, and Sansa because they were so exquisite. In Larra's progresses, which Sansa was still reading, Maester Luwin had often commented that Larra devoted herself wholeheartedly to any given task set her, once she was shown the basics and was allowed to fly: What she attempted, she conquered, and once Maester Luwin had started teaching her patience, it had been drille into Larra to devoted herself to completing every task, no matter how small. Sansa remembered sitting for portraits: She remembered how meticulous Larra was, and how hard she was on herself if she did not meet the standards she held herself to. Every one of Larra's pieces was a work of art in itself, utterly creative and meticulously designed, flawlessly rendered. Sansa often wondered how many times Larra had had to practice before getting the pieces just as she liked them.

From Larra's set, Sansa had taken the perfect, miniature weirwood tree. Its trunk and branches were carved from a single chunk of weirwood; scarlet silk had been cut and stitched into the tiniest five-pointed leaves, barely bigger than the nail on her little finger, stitched and coiled around the branches with invisible white threads.

When Sansa sighed, the ruby-red silk leaves shivered as if in a breeze in the godswood.

Every midday, Sansa sat in the solar with a cup of tea and played cyvasse with a Knight of the Vale. Every evening after braiding her hair to turn to her bed, she looked to the four tiny figures before her mirror, touching each of them with her fingertip, thinking of the ones who had created them. Almost a prayer. Robb, Larra, Theon, Jon. Two were gone. Two were absent; but Larra's touch lingered in the pieces they had all left behind - a hairpin that had been transfigured into a sword for Jon's Ranger of the North; the kraken stitched lovingly onto the tiny sail of Theon's ship; the meticulously-carved handsome face of the direwolf and even the pads of its paws, a touch only Larra would have had the artist's eye and patience to even remember.

She reflected on the tiles Sansa had asked the carpenters to make her, alongside their other war preparations: the pieces she had commissioned that were not to be found among those her siblings had left behind. Most of them were gone, but their legacy was what they had left her to learn from.

_I haven't played with dolls in years_, she thought, reflecting on her day, with Littlefinger skulking in the shadows, doing what he did best, using her servants to gather information she did not drip-feed him. _Now my dolls are living and breathing and most of them are set upon murdering me._

Cersei's last raven-scroll was coiled neatly beside her candleholder, demanding Jon go south to swear fealty - or die by Cersei's design. She kept it as a physical reminder. Beside the tight cylinder, a small vase of herbs from the glasshouse kept another raven-scroll unfurled; it was from Lord Manderly, telling Sansa that Jon had set sail safely from White Harbour, with a small fleet of ships Ser Rodrick had tasked the Manderlys and Umbers to build when Robb had headed south with the Northern bannermen.

Robb had never used the ships, but they bore the Stark sigil on their sails.

Jon was the first King in the North to have a fleet of his own for centuries.

She would have rather had her brothers and sisters back than a fleet of ships, or news that Jon had safely departed to one of the most dangerous places in Westeros; the bowels of a dragon.

A small pile of raven-scrolls rested beside Lord Manderly's unfurled scroll. She kept it open to reassure herself. But the others demanded her attention, no matter that it was nearly the hour of the wolf, and she was to take a dawn progress around Winter's Town, which had been rebuilt in the years since the Ironborn and Boltons sacked it. During any given winter, it had been customary for most Northmen to turn to Winterfell for shelter and sustenance - full to bursting, it could house at least twenty-thousand. Every one of them would need to shelter within the walls come the inevitable battle against the Night King. Sansa was learning more every day, thanks to the combined efforts of Lord Royce, Master Wolkan - with whom she took three hours' instruction every morning after breaking her fast early - and Larra, who had kept her own observations and lists and plans in a small diary in her sewing-box in her bedchamber. Larra had been left to rule Winterfell with Maester Luwin, until Bran reached manhood, and winter was coming; she had had to think ahead, and Sansa combed through her sister's notes, learning as much about her sister's cleverness as preparing for winter in the midst of wartime. By the time Maester Luwin's last notes had been scratched hastily into Larra's progress, the North had been actively engaged in a war to the south, which had already cost them the autumn and a good deal of the manpower for harvest; and winter was coming.

It was Larra's notes, and her memories of the bouquet of Tyrells in King's Landing, and their cooks from the Reach with their unusual, flavourful dishes, that had Sansa, early the next morning, writing a raven-scroll and signing it as _Sansa Stark, Lady Regent of the Northern Kingdom_. She sealed it, and fed a raven before sending it on its way to the Reach, where it arrived, ten days later, just in time to catch Lady Olenna Tyrell before she climbed into her wheelhouse, bound for the eastern coast and a Tyrell ship to Dragonstone.

* * *

The great beasts swooped and soared, banking and diving sharply. Three of them.

How long was it since last dragons hunted the lands and waters surrounding Dragonstone? Centuries? She could not remember. Every sailor manning the small but richly-laden Tyrell fleet gazed in awe and no small amount of dread as three dragons beat their enormous wings - green with a glint of bronze, like their own sigil; onyx striated with blood-red, the Targaryen sigil brought to life; and snow-white and glinting like gold - circling the last relic of Old Valyria. Dragonfire had shaped the fortress - dragonfire and sorcery. Even her tired eyes could discern the features wrought by magic to make the towers resemble dragons.

_Targaryen posturing_, she thought disdainfully. She remembered the Targaryens, when the family had still been strong, when Aegon the Unlikely had sat the Iron Throne. She remembered the Last Dragon. Handsome, exceptionally clever even by her exacting standards, and a fool, dead in the mud with a woman's name whispered from his lips as blood sprayed from his broken body. Rhaegar. The last true hope House Targaryen had. She remembered the Prince of Dragonstone; this had been his home, during his marriage, where both of his tragic children by the Dornish princess had been born.

His mother Queen Rhaella had died here.

Accompanied as Olenna was by a selection of her surviving grandchildren she had meticulously chosen, for the first time she felt a flicker of compassion for the Queen. Dead during childbirth, bringing forth the last of the Mad King's seed taken root in her belly. After such devastating loss, Olenna now realised the toll it took to carry on: How wonderful, to give in. To rest. To join the ones who had gone before her.

She should never have lived this long.

Fury kept her animated. Fury, and a lust for vengeance.

Queen Rhaella had given in: Olenna Tyrell would _never_ concede.

Now the selectively blind, duty-bound Queen's daughter had come to reclaim her family's ancestral seat. The very last of noble Valyrian dragonseed left to the world.

With three dragons.

One alone could lay waste to King's Landing within a fraction of an hour. What Cersei had left intact of the city, of course. Olenna dreamed of Harren and his great castle: Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Cersei roasted within the halls of the Red Keep, smirk seared from her face by dragonfire.

From what Olenna had heard, the Dragon Queen had no qualms turning her dragons loose to get what she wanted. She had fed Meereenese nobles to them, to instil fear and try and subvert a revolt.

Was that any better than Cersei Lannister using wildfire to blow up the Great Sept? To murder not only Olenna's son, and grandson and granddaughter, her nieces and nephews and their children - but Cersei's own family. Her own Lannister ladies-in-waiting, her cousins, her uncle. Any Lannister who reminded her that she was not nearly as clever as she thought - she was hardly her father's daughter: Cersei was all fury, no finesse. Tywin had been ruthless and implacable and Olenna had been amused to find herself respectful of him: It was rare to find her match, and she had luxuriated in the excitement, the spark, after so long, to have to stretch her wits.

It was dreadfully dull being the cleverest person in the room all of the time.

It had been almost pleasant to be outmanoeuvred, when it had been the Stark girl they were fighting over like spoiled children in the nursery who would rather tear the doll in two than let the other have it.

She had heard that Tywin's deformed monster of a son had been named Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen. He had been a disappointment, a browbeaten Master of Coin, not at all the drunken whoremonger she had been amused to hear stories of, with wits as sharp as Valyrian steel. Once again she had found herself utterly disappointed.

Olenna wondered very much how this Targaryen girl measured up.

She did not anticipate much.

After all this time, Olenna was an excellent judge of character and intellect - and after recent experience, was the unlikeliest person in the world to underestimate those she believed lack intelligence or charisma.

Cersei had her wildfire, and the Targaryen had her dragons. They would burn King's Landing to the ground to claim what little remained of the Iron Throne once the fires had burned to ash. But how much wildfire could Cersei's pyromancers make, especially when the Targaryen girl's dragons had burned King's Landing and her armies of savages and eunuchs had laid siege to the city's gates and harbour.

The Targaryen girl would get what she wanted, Olenna was certain of it.

How she got there made little difference to her: Olenna only desired her House to survive whatever onslaught was coming, to see her family thrive after Cersei's best attempts to rip the roses out of Westeros root and stem.

She had often disdained the words of the family into which she had engineered she be married into. _Growing strong_.

Not dangerous words. Not the grim warnings of the Starks, nor the disdain of the Ironborn, _We do not sow_, or even the taunts of the Martells, _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken_… Those were arrogant words - but true. Princess Nymeria had once been a great heroine of Olenna's in her childhood. No. The Tyrell words were _Growing Strong_. As the men lowered a little boat from the side of their ship and rowed her and her eldest surviving granddaughter to shore, Olenna observed the girl and reflected on the Tyrell words. There was a certain stubborn resilience to them. For all they decorated everything within her sight with roses, it was the vines beneath that mattered; cut back, they returned, spring after spring, supporting the exquisite blooms year after year.

The girl was no Margaery, but of course, who could compare? Margaery had been exceptional. Her eldest cousins had stood in as her ladies-in-waiting at court, the prettiest, wiliest of Olenna's granddaughters plucked from Highgarden to place themselves strategically at court, using their pretty petals to coax would-be allies close enough to wrap their vines around, before they even realised they were ensnared, thorns in their sides, and supporting the Tyrell roses.

Burned to ash, in a single moment.

Olenna would have been, too, if not for her granddaughter's note. A single, poorly-etched Tyrell rose, sketched in charcoal from the fire on a scrap of parchment ripped from the Book of the Seven. Olenna had it folded and tucked against her breast over her heart, still. Margaery's warning to leave King's Landing - her warning had been against the High Sparrow and his pestilential Faith Militant, not Cersei…either way, Olenna was alive and Margaery was dead and she could not help but grieve that it was so. It should be Margaery in her place, ruling Highgarden in her own right as Lady of the Reach, and Olenna no more than ashes carried on the wind.

It should have been Margaery tutoring her surviving cousins; it should have been Margaery sending emissaries to Dragonstone.

As it was, Olenna would teach her last surviving heirs through her example. Her granddaughter, Alynore. She had been one of the younger ones, too young to attend court when Margaery became Queen; and, the youngest of five sisters, she had always been a delicate little bud overlooked because of the larger blooms with luxurious petals and decadent beguiling perfumes. She lacked Margaery's seemingly guileless blue eyes and sweetly smirking rosebud mouth and insouciant little chin, but Olenna could not deny her granddaughter Alynore had her own beauty.

Sometime between the start of the War of the Five Kings and Margaery's wedding to Tommen, Alynore Tyrell had grown up. Olenna could not quite put her finger on when; truth be told, she knew so very little about this granddaughter.

Alynore had the most exquisitely virginal face Olenna could ever remember seeing. As if the Maiden herself were personified in her granddaughter.

Margaery's blue eyes had glinted with shrewd charisma: Alynore's delicate green eyes were beguiling in their sweetness, framed in lashes that fluttered, the tips glinting gold. Her nose was far prettier than Margaery's, her features almost perfectly symmetrical, and her lips were lush and rose-pink. She was blessed with glowing ivory skin, and cheeks that flushed naturally. Her hair was a soft, pretty brown that glinted with rich gold tones even in the cold island sunlight, and she wore it twisted away from her face with intricate little braids, the rest loose, shining to her waist in gentle waves. Her smile was modest and inherently kind.

As the eldest surviving Tyrell granddaughter, mothers all over the Reach would look to Alynore as a model for their daughters' modesty and sweetness.

And men would tear each other to pieces to be the first to mount her. Their lust for temptresses who brought to life every dark fantasy was matched only by their lust for untouched maidens who yielded to their advances, eyes wide and thighs soft.

Where Margaery had been playful and coy, Alynore was gentle and unsettlingly earnest. Alynore was soft-spoken and naturally shy, where Margaery had become accustomed to being fawned over, always the centre of attention. Margaery had had exquisite self-assuredness and poise, while Alynore was modest and showed her emotions in endearing little ways.

She was shy; but Olenna was privately impressed how gracefully Alynore was adapting to her new position - eldest heir to the Reach, after her younger brothers at Highgarden. Olenna was not an easy woman to be near to: Alynore endured her tyranny with a seemingly bottomless well of patience.

It rather shamed Olenna to think it, but she knew so little of the girl Alynore truly was behind that virginal face and her mild manners. Was she only calm, and helpful, taking the initiative, anticipating what Olenna wanted or needed, to keep her happy, to help Olenna's work, to have meals prepared before Olenna realised she was hungry… Alynore would have made a wonderful lady-in-waiting - a role she had truly been trained for by her mother and her septas as soon as Margaery had set her eye on Joffrey - but the eldest female heir of House Tyrell? That was a different role entirely.

She was now the prize rose in the garden.

Alynore had to learn.

"Close your mouth, my dear," Olenna said, with a touch of impatience, reaching out to gently stroke her granddaughter's delicate little chin to soften the sting of her words. "You must learn to disguise your reactions - let nothing appear to shock you, no matter how gruesome. Never betray amusement if it costs another person their dignity, for it will be remembered. You must become a swan, my dear. No matter how madly you must scramble beneath the surface to remain afloat, to the world you are nothing but serene and elegant, unflappable."

Alynore closed her mouth, but her eyes flickered back to the dragons careening overhead, larger now as the little boat carried them to the little dock. A small island, reliant on fish for survival during the winter, Olenna observed the miniscule fleet of fishing boats docked in the small harbour.

"Now that we know the rumours are true, how do things change, Grandmother?" Alynore asked, grimacing subtly as the boat jolted against the wall, some of the smallfolk lingering offering their aid, in the hopes of a coin. They earned it, helping Olenna to solid ground once more. With the benefit of youth she would always take for granted until it was inexplicably gone, Alynore ascended elegantly from the little boat, offering the rough fishermen a smile that had them half in love with her, all thought of coin forgotten as they drank in those rosy lips and gentle green eyes, had her murmur of thanks - perhaps the kindest word any of them had ever had from a highborn - especially one so fine.

Olenna watched the girl, and raised an eyebrow. Perhaps she had it, after all.

Appearances were deceiving.

However, there was nothing duplicitous about the Unsullied patrolling the harbour, like a small regiment of featureless beetles; there was nothing but undisguised threat and hostility from the shabby Dothraki with their deep copper skin and oiled braids threaded with silver bells of victory, longer than any of her granddaughters' hair. There was nothing confusing about the threat of those three dragons.

As for their mother…

She made note of the eerie silence in what should have been a bustling harbour bringing in fish to overwinter the smallfolk. Salt should have been shipped in from the Saltpans to preserve it. She saw precious few faces belonging to natives of the island: Those she saw were drawn, suspicious, harried.

It could not be plainer that Daenerys Targaryen was _occupying_ Dragonstone, in only the worst connotations: She knew enough of the smallfolk to read the signs. The Dothraki and Unsullied were not welcomed, not wanted: They were feared, and tolerated only… Dragonstone had not been liberated…its people were oppressed by fear with the mere presence of the Breaker of Chains and her armies.

The smallfolk of Dragonstone, some of whom may have been descended from Valyrians themselves when the Targaryen dragon-lords first claimed the island as an outpost of their empire, were too afraid of the invaders to prepare for winter.

"It makes things rather simple. The Targaryen girl will use those dragons to take what she wants with fire and blood. Oh, I am sure she may have some qualms about burning King's Landing. But, when one gets what one truly desires, does one linger on doubts and guilt about how it came to fall into your lap?" Olenna tutted. She hadn't lost a night's sleep over Joffrey's death: She had slept the sounder for it.

"The raven-scroll said Daenerys Stormborn intends to liberate the Seven Kingdoms from the tyranny of Cersei Lannister…"

"They say this Dragon Queen is an idealist, a champion of the enslaved and downtrodden…a slippery path to tread, utterly treacherous to the unwary - and the unwise. One day her quest to reshape the world will see her people cowering before her whims, as any slave who values his life minds his owner's will…"

"I saw a Martell ship in the harbour. I wonder why Prince Doran has sent an emissary: The Mad King kept Elia Martell and her babies hostage. Dorne will not have forgotten that. They will never forgive that the Targaryens cost them their sister," said Alynore thoughtfully.

"House Lannister butchered Elia Martell and her children. House Lannister cost Dorne their favourite prince. Do you imagine the Dornish will ignore the opportunity to eradicate the last of House Lannister?"

"But Tyrion Lannister serves as Hand to Daenerys Targaryen; and he was the one the Red Viper was champion for in the trial-by-combat that claimed his life," Alynore frowned gently. "Why would the Dornish ally with Daenerys Targaryen if her advisers are from their enemy's House?"

"Hand of the Queen! Their working days are too long, their lives are too short," Olenna smirked. "Do you know how many Hands Aerys burned before the Kingslayer opened his throat in the Throne Room? Unlike the Kingslayer's own maiming, these Hands are easily replaced."

"I've heard Prince Doran is cautious. Why wouldn't Dorne stay out of any conflict, if it's in Dornish interests to remain neutral and preserve their strength?" Alynore pondered. "The North has declared independence from the Iron Throne. They have already liberated themselves from Cersei Lannister."

"After she has claimed the Iron Throne, how do you imagine Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, recovers the North as one of the seven dominions she covets?" Olenna asked tartly. Alynore gave her a look. It was a look Olenna had given many times: It spoke much more than words. It said her granddaughter, for all her virginal looks and gentle manners, was no fool.

"How is this Targaryen queen any different if she uses the threat of dragons to get what she wants, instead of wildfire?" Alynore asked.

"Oh, she uses more than the _threat_ of them, my dear; she has burned people all across Essos and the Dothraki Sea, nobles and smallfolk alike, for getting in her way," Olenna said airily. "I imagine this sovereign is no different than any other. Using cunning and admiration in equal measure to take what they want, and keep a rigid hold on it no matter the cost."

"Margaery did that," Alynore murmured. Olenna glanced at her granddaughter. "Daenerys Targaryen will take the Iron Throne. Grandmother, why are we here?"

"When she unleashes those monstrous creatures, she will take King's Landing in a heartbeat, and the rest of Westeros will fall at her feet within the week," Olenna said certainly. "And it will be remembered who stood by her side on her journey to the capital, long before all the other lords started to grovel for forgiveness and favours."

"Why do you not have my brother declare independence, as the North has done?" Alynore asked quietly, glancing around, as a small carriage appeared: They were expected, after all. Alynore's grip was strong as Olenna used her for support to climb in. It was musty from disuse. She imagined most things in Dragonstone were, after Stannis Baratheon's exodus north. The Targaryen girl had merely commandeered them. "Let dragons and lions kill themselves to destroy each other."

"Listen closely, my dear," Olenna said shrewdly, as they settled and the carriage jolted into motion. "We are here to meet with this Targaryen girl, and get the measure of her. There are ways and means of handling impracticalities if she proves unsuitable. While you are at Dragonstone you will listen, and you will observe. They will be too busy being affronted by me to pay much attention to you; their tongues will be looser around you if they believe you're sweet and docile and about as threatening as the rosebud you look. For all I thought Sansa Stark was a simple, dull creature, she survived Cersei Lannister for years; now she rules the North as Lady Regent for her baseborn brother. She kept her mouth shut, except to say what people wanted to hear; you must learn to _survive_, my girl. Learn to play the game better than anyone. Better than Margaery…anticipate the likes of Cersei…and learn to get the measure of a person yourself, rather than rely on their reputations. Do their actions match their philosophies? I want you to watch Daenerys Stormborn. I want you to question how she acts, and why; and every decision she makes; learn who she listens to, and understand the bonds between them to get the measure of their influence; anticipate how she will react, and what she will demand. What did you observe in the harbour?"

"It seemed strangled with dread. No-one was working," Alynore said, and she flicked her gentle green eyes at Olenna before murmuring, "There was a girl…I think they were Dothraki."

"They take slaves as dogs rut on bitches," Olenna said coolly. "They believe their braids entitle them to take whatever they wish. Westerosi lords are no different, of course; but not nearly so brazen about it - with a few exceptions. She will not be the first on this island to be raped before the Dragon Queen takes her conquest to the mainland. Copper-skinned bastards will abound throughout the Seven Kingdoms before the Targaryen girl is done. Within a generation perhaps Westeros will become the heart and home of the _khalasaars_. They say Vaes Dothrak still smoulders, a ruin."

She tucked the observation away. Breaker of Chains indeed.

Under her very nose, the Dragon Queen's soldiers abused those she had vowed to liberate.

And her granddaughter had noticed it in a moment's glimpse of the harbour. Thinking on it, didn't Alynore have to be observant to anticipate what _Olenna_ wanted in any given moment? She settled back in the carriage, as it trundled up the side of a volcanic mountain toward the monstrous castle, and rested, as much as she was able, before the inevitable meeting with Daenerys Targaryen.

* * *

**A.N.**: I LOVE OLENNA. I just…Diana Rigg. Goddess. Put her and the Dowager Countess of Grantham at the same dinner-table? The conflagration of barbs and one-liners would put Daenerys' Dance around King's Landing to shame!


	10. Expedience

**A.N.**: I'm not a Jonerys shipper, I will point that out immediately. There are many side-effects to poor writing, and aside from the lack of chemistry, one of the things that suffered was Jon, after his apparent lobotomy. If anything, our Jon would have been far more cautious after being - you know - _murdered_ \- and less likely to tolerate the kind of things Daenerys does as a matter of course - I do want Jon at one point to make certain to Daenerys that he has no respect for her conquest, something along the lines of her being no better than slavers when she kills those who do not yield to her. Also, we've seen Jon be downright _sassy_ before, especially when he's verbally sparring with his political enemies.

I'd also like to show a contrast between Daenerys and Alynore: One is a queen, the other is not, but one thinks like a ruler and the other is too focused on what she wants to take care of what she has…

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_10_

_Expedience_

* * *

The first hanging cage appeared two days' ride from Last Hearth, outside the boundary walls of a small holdfast clinging to the frozen shore of Long Lake. The poor man had frozen to death long before thirst or hunger could claim him. A handful of men lowered the cage and prised it open, at Larra's request: She would not risk leaving any dead unburned. And the cage was decent steel. Before the flames caught alight to burn the body, Larra noted the muscle-shells sewn to his ragged furs. One of the Free Folk, the last of only a handful of thousands to survive Hard Home, to survive the North: The last of the Free Folk.

"They say it's almost pleasant to freeze to death," Edd murmured. The wagon-train continued out of their sight, the sun low but bright, the evergreen trees laden with fresh snow and the lake to their right frozen solid. "You're warm again, before the end. It's gentle."

Larra remembered Benjen's frostbitten face, and flinched. She had heard that, as well. The burning body crackled and smouldered, and they moved on, as they had with the Night's Watchmen who died during the first leg of their journey from Castle Black. They could not afford to linger.

They were nearing Winterfell: Had not Jon pledged the safety of the Free Folk when they came south, and reclaimed Winterfell, and the North, so he could exert his influence over the Northmen to comply?

One man, alone, Larra might tolerate, maybe if he was a convicted rapist or murderer.

As the nameless man burned, Larra couldn't help remember her History lessons with Maester Luwin, arguing with her brothers: "_To put something in context is a step towards saying it can be understood and that it can be explained. And if it can be explained, that it can be explained away_." Some things should never be _understood_…should never be explained…or explained _away_.

Before nightfall they were within sight of the holdfast. And perhaps Mors Umber, before Brandon's nugget of information about his surviving wildling grandchildren and great-grandchildren, may have put the Free Folks' capture and torture and death into the context of the Northmen's historic hatred of and ongoing wars with the plundering wildlings. To explain the string of hanging cages and crucifixes strung up with people in ragged furs - or nothing at all - was a step behind explaining it _away_. Larra would not do that. She could not tolerate senseless cruelty.

Her hands gripped the reins tighter, Black Alys unnerved, perhaps by the scent of death or by her bond with Larra; Larra was upset at the sight of the disfigured bodies nailed to crucifixes, hulking birds of prey feasting on their remains, opportunistic hunters in the heart of winter.

It was the yard that did it. A small holdfast, the cottages of its smallfolk enclosed the great yard in a large square full of mucky sludge. A woman had been stripped naked and locked at the stocks, for the use of any man who wanted her, her face slack with grief and confusion, her body collapsed with exhaustion, eyes glassy. A young man's back had been opened by the lash, still strapped to the pillory, legs weak beneath him, the blood frozen on his skin and matting his furs. Inside the hanging cage, a half-naked child had frozen where he had curled up for warmth. More of the Free Folk were shackled to rings on spikes embedded deep into the great stone wall of the yard beside frozen steps up to the oak doors.

Little Jon Umber, perched in Larra's lap with a fur cloak wrapped around them both, turned his little face to hers, red-nosed, his eyes wide as an owl's.

"Free them. Let them burn their dead with dignity," Larra murmured to Edd, who had looked to her for direction. Ever since leaving Castle Black, he had started doing that more and more often; perhaps because she had advised about putting the fletchers to good use on the journey south, or because she was Jon's sister and he had assumed she knew what she was about. Either way, she had proven her instincts to be sharp, and several of the stronger men set about freeing the chained wildlings. "Don't approach the stocks."

"Why not?"

"Because you're _men_," Larra muttered darkly, but she needn't have worried: The woman was dead. She asked several of the men to find something to cover her modesty when they freed her, and set her down gently, covered in an empty burlap sack, before they freed the man at the pillory. He was still alive, against all odds. "Gently, with his arms. Lower them slowly. Have the maester prepare herbs for a snow-coat. And Hobb shall warm some soup, if he can sit long enough to eat a few mouthfuls."

Her own back seemed to burn with compassion, remembering all those years ago, the snap of the leather against her back, the ache in her arms, the cold kissing her bare breasts as the yard looked on sombrely, the people who knew and adored her weeping silently as the Queen smirked on. She remembered smiling dazedly at her in response, and the Queen striding out of sight, bored when the pleasure of inflicting punishment was deprived her. She remembered the snow-coat Maester Luwin had treated her with, the discomfort of sleeping on her belly on a wooden board, the scent of snow and herbs and blood mingling in the air, groggy from milk of the poppy Maester Luwin had slipped into the mouthfuls of stew she had managed, before the fever set in, and she lingered for days in a dreamlike state of pain and memories…

She didn't look too closely at the man's wounds, even as her own healed ones seemed to prickle and sear with burning pain, recommitting the pain to memory. She had recovered. She had deprived the Queen's victory through resilience alone.

Cersei had had her flogged, twenty-five lashes inflicted by the expert precision of Ser Ilyn Payne…for the crime of reminding Robert Baratheon of his beloved. For being Lyanna Stark reincarnated.

She felt a grim satisfaction, thinking, _Oh, if they had but known…_ Lyanna's daughter. The girl Rhaegar had died for; the girl Robert had gone to war for. The girl every man in Westeros seemed to have preferred over Cersei Lannister, who had become Queen simply because, at the end of it all, she was the last of them left. The last, and the worst. It wounded Cersei's pride to be reminded of that.

The stunned wildling was carried to a wagon, arms draped around the shoulders of two Night's Watchmen. Larra stared at the hanging cage; none of the men seemed to want to dare go near it. Grown adults was one thing…a _child_…

He was a fragile-looking thing, no older than Little Jon, and quite a bit smaller. A mop of dark golden curls - like Rickon's unruly mane. Lush lips that would have been the envy of any girl who saw them. Vivid blue eyes stared unseeingly back at her, framed with curling black lashes a mile long.

He blinked.

"Shit!" Larra swore, startled back, heart in her mouth. "He's alive! Help me get him down!"

"How the fuck is he alive?"

"I don't know - but his arm is broken," Larra murmured, eyeing the boy, who started trying to unfurl from the tight little ball he had tucked himself into at the foot of the cage. His forearm was bruised blackish-purple, and bent at an unpleasant angle.

"Were they his parents, d'you think?" Edd murmured, as the cage was lowered. The cage was broken open by several hits of a hatchet wielded by one of the Night's Watch carpenters. The boy froze when one of the men leaned in to lift him out; Larra laid a hand delicately on his arm, and the carpenter locked eyes with her, and stood back.

She wore wildling furs.

At a glance, she thought these Free Folk originated from the Frozen Shores. To survive Hard Home, only to meet such an end…

Carefully, she spoke a few words in a dialect from the Frozen Shores she had picked up from wildlings fleeing south as Jojen and Brandon had spurred them further north. It was a strangely beautiful sound, guttural in places, the sound coming from the back of her throat as if she were about to spit, rolling her Rs musically, lots of soft V sounds, almost like the rushing of waves. It was a dialect of the Old Tongue.

The boy's lower-lip quivered as he reached out to her, his eyes on the bent arm. Carefully, she manoeuvred him out of the cage, helping him unfold from his crouch, and lifted him into her arms. He was frail as a fledgling, all skin and grief, with his broken arm and vivid blue eyes.

"Get Jon down off Black Alys, thank you. Chuck him in the wagon with Bran," Larra said gently, nodding at the boy, and one of the Watchmen helped the boy off her mare. "Jon, strip to your smallclothes and climb beneath the furs. You're to cuddle the boy as you would your brother; share your warmth, or he shall die."

"But he's a _wildling_-!"

"Don't give me that," Larra said sharply, as Jon rolled his eyes, sighing heavily as he tugged at the fastenings of his cloak. Brandon watched benignly from his bed of straw, draped in furs and cloaks. They couldn't risk his limbs getting frostbite; Larra didn't know he'd survive the amputation. Slowly, Brandon himself started to shift the furs and blankets from his own legs, his hands like pale spiders against the furs. "I won't tolerate that ignorance. Clothes off, now. Don't give me that look; your uncles gave me leave to smack you if you're foul. Ask Brandon if you think I won't. The back of his head has my handprint embedded in it!" She managed to climb into the wagon, setting the boy down beside Jon, who looked positively plump next to the frail, strong wilding boy. "Mind his arm, Jon. It's broken. Once he's warmed we'll have the maester set the bone, if he can. And I shall have Hobb warm some broth."

"He's _freezing_!" Jon cried indignantly, shivering away. She raised an eyebrow, giving him a stern look, and tucked the furs and blankets and extra clothes over the two boys, careful of the wildling's arm. She spoke gently to the wildling boy, offering her name, and asking for his in turn.

"Ragnar. His name is Ragnar," Larra murmured. "Keep him warm, Jon. I'll come back." She tucked the heavy cloaks and furs over the two boys; vivid blue eyes watched her as she climbed out of the wagon.

"The fuck are you doing?" The bellow rang out across the yard. On the steps to the holdfast, a man in a heavy cloak appeared, the links of his brigandine glinting in the meagre sunlight, just like the unsheathed blade in his hand. His expression was murderous; few of the Watchmen paid him any mind, nor did the Umber smallfolk or the lesser lords who had gathered at Last Hearth before journeying southwards toward Winterfell with the Night's Watch.

What was one angry little man against thousands?

Larra stilled, watching the lord, reminding Larra herself of Last Shadow when they had hunted the wolfswood together. She had gained sight of her prey. She remembered this lesser lord. Not quite a Bolton, but not a pleasant companion to sit beside at feasts. Rumour said he could only get hard to rape his wife when he beat her, when she cried in pain.

"Ah… Black Jack," Larra said softly, a silky whisper that had Edd glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, wary. Black Jack strode down the stairs, heavy cloak whipping in the wind, fresh snow carried on it. "I should have realised this mess was of your making." She knew where she was, now. She remembered avoiding these lands on her journey north: Black Jack had a brutal reputation.

Her eyes flicked beyond Black Jack, to the figures huddled in the protection of their great hall. Two women stood huddled together, one young and pretty, one older, half her face swollen and purple from bruising. Her shoulders were thrown back, though, and she had her arms protectively around her daughter's shoulders. Beside them tottered an elderly man whose sigil Larra could just make out on the breast of his richly quilted tunic. Another local lord, one she remembered from the harvest feast. He'd gone through his fourth wife and sought another. His meagre lands made for rich fur trapping. A nasty, mean little man, she recalled; he had smelled of kippers and unwashed flesh.

Edd's pointed chin rose, his sharp eyes flitting to his brothers, all of whom were armed. To greet anyone with your sword unsheathed was a display of open hostility; Larra should not have been surprised, remembering Black Jack's reputation for cruelty and stupidity, that he had come charging down the stairs swinging his sword.

In a moment, one of the seasoned Rangers had Black Jack disarmed, flat on his back.

"The Free Folk were invited south beyond the Wall and are under the protection of the King in the North," said Edd, as two Night's Watchmen lifted Black Jack to his feet, restraining him. A small crowd had congregated, smallfolk daring to open their doors to watch their lord's humiliation.

"King in the North?! A bastard," Black Jack sneered. "No more than a whore's get."

"Why are your people still here?" Larra asked sharply, dread settling in the pit of her stomach. "The Starks have called their banners. All the living North are to make their way to Winterfell." Black Jack squinted at her, recognition seeming to flare in his eyes.

"You… I remember you, the bastard whore of Winterfell," he sneered, and spat at her feet. Larra raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. She'd befriended direwolves, killed White Walkers and bedded a Thenn. There was absolutely nothing intimidating about this hateful little man. She scoffed in disdain, giving him the kind of look he deserved - the kind of look she had, admittedly, learned from Lady Catelyn - _seething_, burning disdain.

"You ignore your King's summons and commit treason in harming the Free Folk under his protection," said Edd dangerously, hand on the hilt of his sword. "You willingly place your own people in harm's way in spite of the warnings of a threat of imminent war."

"Only threat I see is the bastard who calls himself King, who let the wildlings roam free beyond the Wall," Black Jack sneered. Edd shared a glance with Larra. It was quick, and decisive: They had no time to argue.

"You refuse the call, and willingly endanger Northmen?" Edd said quietly. Black Jack spit again. Edd sighed. "I, Eddison Tollett, acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, so named by Jon Snow, King in the North, charge you with treason against your king. I hereby sentence you to die by beheading. Hold him."

The Watchmen held Black Jack still - for all his cursing and screaming - and Edd struck true. One clean swing of his sword, and Black Jack's head landed with a dull, wet thump on the slush. His body was dragged beside that of the frozen wildling woman for burning.

There was a brief ruckus in the square, over before it started: On the steps of the holdfast, Black Jack's wife had taken a blade concealed by her daughter, and stabbed the elderly man in the gut a half a dozen times. The brute died clutching his belly, his expression of utmost surprise. Mother and daughter embraced, as the Night's Watch stared, and got to work, shepherding the smallfolk. Granaries and root cellars were emptied as quickly as possible, livestock driven ahead, and the vulnerable were bundled into whatever wagons were to hand, wearing every article of clothing they possessed, anything else left behind.

The pieces of Black Jack were left to burn beside the body of the wildling woman he had murdered.

In the wagon, trundling ahead to reach a convenient place to shelter that Larra remembered from her journey northwards, she checked on the boys. They were curled up together, as brothers might, wrapped in furs and blankets, Ragnar's eyes closed, head nestled against Jon's chest, his features relaxed in sleep; Jon's were turned on Bran as he told a story in his calm, eerie voice. Larra checked whether Ragnar had gained some body-heat, worried that he might take on a fever if he didn't die of hypothermia - that was the word Maester Luwin used. As soon as they reached the sheltered place in the woods Larra remembered, she would wake Ragnar for broth and have the maester see to his arm. She ducked out of the wagon again, and climbed onto Black Alys, who snorted and stamped her feet restlessly; she trotted ahead to catch up to Edd.

"How's the boy?"

"Warming up nicely," Larra said softly. She adjusted her furs, squinting in the gentle snows. At least they would have a mild night: It only ever snowed when it was mild, never when it was freezing. Snow was a good sign. She had to bat her eyelashes to get rid of the snowflakes clinging to them. "How are you?"

"Don't know how Jon did it. The boy…even in the circumstances."

"Still, it was right you swung the sword."

"Aye. I know; your way is the old way," Edd nodded. "I passed the sentence."

"Why did you?" Larra asked curiously. She knew why she had given her support.

Edd sighed. "There's what, two hundred more of us, just from that holdfast? That's two hundred people who won't be joining the Night King's army. Two hundred fewer we have to fight if we want to live… His wife and daughter seem to be bearing their grief well enough." He gave her an ironic little smirk. "Have you seen them?"

"His wife apologised for his rudeness; how she managed to with a face that bruised…the maester's had a look at her. Her cheekbone will heal," Larra said, eyes widening slightly. "If there was the time I'd teach knife-skills, the maester had to bandage a wicked cut on her palm."

"Jon used to tell us stories about your training in the yard," Edd chuckled. "Said you learned through experience. That's why you fight with sword and knife." He had never seen her fight to know that: Jon _had_ talked about her among his brothers.

"Not because I was any better than them," Larra said quietly, as they ambled along. She sighed. "Quite the opposite; I was a danger to myself if I had nothing in both hands. I almost lost fingers because I tended to grab out in the midst of a skirmish. When we were twelve, Maester Luwin managed to save my finger; I still have scars from the stitches. Couldn't do anything with the hand for weeks." She fell silent, lost in memories of the training-yard, of Ser Rodrik and Mikken, of Tomas her stable-boy, and _Hodor_, of her brothers hitting each other with sparring-swords and shields, Arya being chased by Bran as Rickon's giggles echoed on the gentle summer air and Father watched from the walkway above, a content smile on his tired face…

"How long since you've been home?" Edd asked, guessing where her thoughts were.

Larra sighed. "What is the year?" she asked. Edd told her, and she stared at him. The snow started to fall more heavily, but she didn't see it.

"Six years," Larra croaked disbelievingly, and Edd nodded slowly. "Nearly six years since we fled Winterfell."

Seven since she had last seen Jon.

She wondered whether they had passed their name-day. Were they twenty-three or twenty-four years old?

"How many more miles've we got, d'you reckon?" he asked thoughtfully, gazing out at the horizon, limited by the mountains surrounding Long Lake, and the snows.

"Two hundred and fifty miles, give or take a dozen, once we reach the southernmost shore of Long Lake," Larra said, doing the sums in her head. Her journey north all those years ago had taken far longer, even without the thousands of refugees and livestock. A would-be castellan bastard-daughter of a High Lord; her crippled brother and his simple giant carer; her wild, wrathful baby-brother and his earthy wilding surrogate-mother; two Reeds; and three direwolves. They had made an odd party, even before reaching the great heart-tree… And they had been on foot, avoiding any main thoroughfare or holdfast, hunting to survive and hoping not to get caught for poaching - on her father's land! The blisters on her feet had long since turned to tough leather; her wool dress and hose and cloak she had traded for furs; and less than half their party might ever see Winterfell again.

She would see _Jon_ again.

* * *

**A.N.**: Maybe I listened to 'All of Them' from Hans Zimmer's amazing _King Arthur_ soundtrack when I was planning my outline for this story! That film's influence on me definitely shows in this chapter!

I'm off to the Zoo tomorrow with my school class, so I thought I'd treat you all to a midweek treat.


	11. Beneath the Sea

**A.N.**: I've always been struck by Lord Bloodraven's wisdom, so this chapter was named for the advice he gave Bran - advice that was ignored, and led directly to the Bloodraven's, Summer's and Hodor's deaths. Bad Brandon.

I've just discovered the male model Lucky Blue Smith - is it me, or could he be a lovechild of Nikolaj Coster-Waldau and Lena Headey? It's making me rethink where I'm going with some of the sub-plots…

Also, as I've given Larra intensely blue-violet eyes (think purple crocuses almost, or purple lobelia), and I want to keep some details from the books - like the fact that Targaryen hair is silvery-gold not dead old-man white - I'm giving Daenerys her purple eyes back, though they'll be mallow-flower mauve, more traditionally purple than Larra's blue-toned violet eyes.

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_11_

_Beneath the Sea_

* * *

A crumbling holdfast provided their shelter, when Larra felt the threat of an ice-storm in her marrow. Like the wildlings, Larra had learned intuition when it came to the hints that nature provided when a storm was brewing. And they were lucky to reach the holdfast when they had: As it was, they lost near a dozen people overnight, from sickness and age and one from cold.

Not Larra's boys, though. She would not lose another.

Little Jon Umber and the wildling boy Ragnar were thick as thieves and perhaps it was Jon's influence that helped speed Ragnar's recovery, beyond the physical mending of his arm, which had been set and splinted and bandaged expertly by a quiet, half-blind maester who never spoke above a murmur. During the ice-storm that shook the rundown walls of the holdfast, Larra watched them in the firelight as Little Jon and Ragnar giggled, and spoke together in hushed secret whispers and played the simple game Larra had carried past the Wall and back, bone die and carved wooden tokens and etched conkers wrapped in a painted doeskin pouch that opened to a game-mat made of scraps of embroidered silk.

She had invented the game long ago, with Maester Luwin's help. Septa Mordane had helped her with the stitching.

It was her little-brothers' favourite game, long after Robb had gone off to war with Theon, and Bran and Rickon had wiled away their last hour before an early bedtime playing at a table by the hearth in Father's solar, as Larra worked and sipped blackcurrant and liquorice tea, and kept an eye on them.

She watched the two little boys, one dark and sombre and one fair and unruly and her heart hurt. And she realised the boys had learned to communicate. Without realising it, and with stunning speed, Little Jon had learned some of the Old Tongue dialect from the Frozen Shore; and Ragnar had learned enough words of the Common Tongue for them to design their own language to communicate. To _play_. Larra remembered the ingenuity of her siblings at play. What had ever been out of their reach that they could not imagine a way to climb to? They were not the only ones: All around Jon and Ragnar, little children seemed to congregate, for games and play.

Larra loved it. She loved the chaos of the children gathered around her like honeybees swarming to wildflowers, buzzing with excitement. She had forgotten how much she missed her little brothers.

As the winds howled, and the babies whimpered, the men argued and the Watch were looked upon to maintain order among the fractious and frightened, and the horses whickered and neighed at another loud clap of thunder that seemed set on bringing the roof down around them, Larra glanced around in the half-light. It was near noon, but no-one would know it, inside the abandoned holdfast, the storm raging, black clouds illuminated silver in brief flashes of lightning, putting their hearts in their mouths as thunder rumbled to a roar, exploding overhead, and sheets of ice-rain thrashed down. The simple luxury of fires made the large rooms close and almost humid, chasing away the cold, with the refugees of the North somehow managing to make the most of the brief respite from their march southwards, cooking, singing, _celebrating_…

Her stomach ached with loneliness.

Larra glanced up as a familiar silhouette appeared beyond the flames.

"He's asking for you," Meera said tiredly.

"Get some soup," Larra told her quietly, nodding toward a cluster of people tending to a cauldron over a fire, savoury smells wafting from it. She stood slowly, massaging her sore muscles. She had been so long on foot, and on Brandon's sled, that her muscles had forgotten that they had been trained for riding since Larra was old enough to sit a saddle by herself. Her body had forgotten; and reminding it was painful work. Still, it was necessary, and she preferred riding Black Alys to riding in that blasted wagon. She preferred being away from the strange man-boy who had replaced her brother Bran. It was an unkind thought, but it was an honest one: She didn't know who Brandon Stark was any more, or if he even still existed.

Meera had been with him all morning: Larra had made the conscious decision to let her, while she looked after Little Jon and Ragnar.

She had made the decision to put _her_ choices first, not Brandon's needs. Now south of the Wall, and headed to Winterfell, surrounded by people who were happy to _help_ them…it wasn't just _her_ anymore. And Larra knew there was more to the coming war than Brandon, though the Night King would savour the victory of finding and killing Brandon too…

Larra was choosing to make her own choices _matter_ once again. For…nearly seven years, her life had been all about her younger brothers - nearly all her adult life so far. At sixteen, her family had divided; by eighteen, she was fatherless, and in charge of his castle and lords and lands while her eldest brother was off at war and her younger brothers grew up too quickly, broken and bewildered. Since Lady Catelyn cloistered herself away in Bran's chamber, ignoring her youngest, most bewildered child, Larra's entire world had been Rickon - and then Bran, when Lady Catelyn had gone south and never returned, and Bran had awoken, broken. Nothing else had mattered.

Rickon was dead. Brandon was _altered_.

But then, so was she.

If Bran had been replaced with an unrecognisable _Brandon_, then so too had Larra been replaced by a different version of herself, honed and fashioned for survival, not…not _thriving_. Just scraping by, by the edge of her sword, had been enough; and she had become as sharp and unyielding as a blade, a weapon, a tool…a tool to protect Bran, and to provide for him…

Headed to Winterfell, which she had never thought to ever see again, Larra had decided that enough was enough.

She could not go on for much longer as she had been for too long. It would kill her.

Larra wondered if Bran knew it. She was never quite certain whether he knew her thoughts, or merely her actions.

The holdfast had a godswood, as all Northern castles did, and the weirwood had been the marker for Larra on their journey: They had camped beneath the great scarlet boughs of the weirwood on their way north all those years ago. The holdfast was crumbling, but the weirwood was still growing, enormous, and moving the walls out of its way, its roots rupturing the foundations of the holdfast, and in places holding up the walls, a great canopy of scarlet leaves glowing in the firelight among the ancient hammer-beams, hazy in the rising smoke of the fires below. At the foot of the curling bone-white roots digging through the walls sat Brandon, wrapped in his furs, his eyes for once dark, glinting with dozens of sparks of fire reflected from the fires blazing around them. It made his eyes seem as beady and dark and glittering as a raven's, and eerily older than his sixteen years.

He always had a guard from the Watch with him now, a favour from Edd though Larra had not asked. She was well aware that Brandon unnerved people. And when they were unnerved, they became frightened and confused, and did things they would later regret. She handed the guard a bowl of soup as she passed; he took it gratefully, offering a murmur of thanks. Larra was known by sight, but not as well-known the way Jon was to his brothers: She was Jon's sister, no-one could deny that with their looks, but she was a stranger to the men who had claimed her as their sister, as Jon was their brother. She approached Bran, who waited patiently.

"You were gone a long while this time," she warned carefully.

"I was learning," Bran murmured. "You needn't worry."

"I always worry," Larra told him, and he nodded subtly to himself as she perched on the bone-white weirwood roots. The earthy, musty smell of organic detritus hit her, and for a second she could believe they were back in the cave again, Brandon entangled in weirwood roots, the cavernous ceiling full of eerie shadows, the ground littered with skeletons, and the whisper and crackle and muted rush of an unknowable language constant around them as a river… They were not in the cave any longer, and only she, Meera and Brandon had escaped it.

She had one, horrifying moment wondering whether the Night King now commanded the Children… Lord Bloodraven… _Hodor_…

If so, she was glad the Night King's hordes were so large; there was no way Larra would ever see their decomposing, reanimated corpses with glowing blue eyes…

"You need not worry about Bran, any longer," the Three-Eyed Raven told her, gazing solemnly at her. "The boy is gone."

"That is quite clear to me," Larra said, with a bite. "Where were you today? Watching something illuminating, I hope."

If he was going to drift off, he had better well make his ventures useful to the rest of them. After their loss, her _effort_, she thought it was their due. She would not allow Brandon to create a cavern in the wilderness at Winterfell: They needed him to share his knowledge, not hoard it like a miser.

"Yes. I should like to show you," Brandon said, and Larra watched him cautiously. _Show_ her? She frowned, thinking…of Hodor… He gave her a bland smile, knowing. "Bran Stark had no control over his powers. I am Brandon the Broken, the Three-Eyed Raven. I know you dread my power for what it did to Hodor. I have learned much since then."

It was on the tip of her tongue to argue that a full moon's turn had not yet occurred since they fled the cave, so how could he have learned so much? But she did not say it. She was too startled that he realised she blamed him for Hodor. She had never said it aloud…perhaps her Bran was still in there, behind those dark stranger's eyes…_that_ Bran would have blamed himself too…

"What is it you'd like to show me?" she asked quietly, eyeing him shrewdly.

"Things that were. Things that _are_… Some things that may yet come to pass," Brandon said evasively. He held out one large, pale hand that had long ago lost any callouses from training with a sparring-sword in the yard with Ser Rodrick. Now Bran's greatest weapon was his mind, his awesome, unknowable power… She eyed his palm. "He had no sight." She flicked her eyes to Brandon's face, and there was a flicker, just a heartbeat's familiarity, a ghastly sense of grief and guilt, it was Bran staring at her, trying to explain. She blinked, and he was gone, Brandon the Broken in his place. But her brother _was_ there, hidden however deeply.

"You mean Hodor."

Brandon nodded. "But you have the wolfblood. And you have blood of Old Valyria. Dragon-dreams, they were called…you need not fear the deep," Brandon said.

"Are we to go swimming?" Larra asked; she remembered Lord Bloodraven's warning - _it is beautiful beneath the sea, but if you stay too long, you'll drown_…

Brandon's smile was sad and amused at once. "Unless you have something better to pass your time. The storm shall not break before midday tomorrow. And the boys have not noticed your absence." Something twisted in her gut, a small, searing stabbing pain, and she flinched, glancing across the hall where she thought she could see the two boys bent over their game, with Meera watching over them as she ate her soup. They had been in Larra's care fewer than ten days but she had taken on the responsibility of protecting and providing for them. She looked at them and saw her brothers, as they once were; it hurt to think her loyalty and care was not reciprocated…because she felt it was not reciprocated by Bran…

Ungrateful as they had been, in their youth and inexperience, she would not give her brothers for the world: She had given Winterfell and the entire North for them.

Larra looked at this unfamiliar Brandon before her and felt a swell of anger writhing hotly in the pit of her stomach, her hands clenching in her lap. She fought very hard to rein in her temper, to be _constant_, to be what her brothers had needed her to be after their abandonment; her fingernails dug into the toughened skin of her palms, and she thought of Father's warnings of the wolfblood in her veins… _Not just wolfblood…dragonfire_…

She stared at Brandon's hand for who knew how long; and when she unfurled her fist to place her smaller hand in his, her palm smarted from freshly-reopened wounds that reminded her of childhood, of the wolfblood, of her rage that was so familiar to her in Rickon, of unfairness and pent-up fury and _pain_…of loneliness, and disdain and unmasked hatred… Scars had torn; tiny, bloody crescents had appeared in her palms, her fingernails biting so deeply into her skin, the only way she used to have of channelling her anger and pain without hurting anyone else. Her fingers shook as she unfurled her clenched fists; she let out a slow, ragged breath, and placed her blood-spotted palm in his. It was startling, to see how small and pretty her hand looked in Brandon's paw - his skin was unblemished, hers was calloused and tough, but she had fine elegant fingers and except for the colour of one bruise-blackened fingernail she had pretty nails, and slender wrists.

Bran had a _man's_ hands. He was almost a man. Her _little_ brother…

She glanced into his eyes, and saw Bran there, just a hint of him, the earnestness and stubborn tilt to his chin, the endearing impishness glittering in his eyes mingled with sorrow and wisdom beyond his age. Beneath the icy sheen of a brittle façade, the Three-Eyed Raven was still, at heart, her brother. She had to trust him.

Larra placed her hand in his. She blinked.

And she stood amid an inferno.

Her heart flew to her mouth with the shock of it. One moment, they sat listening to the sleet-storm, the next, they were half a world away. She could feel the searing heat of the flames, but they did not touch her; could taste the dust and smoke on her tongue, but was not choked by it; could smell horse and excrement and exotic spices, sex, wine and sun-baked earth. She had the _memory_ of those smells and the heat and her sight, knew by intuition and memory that some smells meant one thing, others another, though she had never been to this place, never seen Dothraki, had no personal knowledge of sun-baked dusty earth and throbbing bazaars full of exotic wares, only rippling seas of fresh green grass vibrant with the scent of new summer snow…

Copper-skinned men screamed and cursed in a guttural tongue, their oiled braids, meticulously plaited with tiny silver bells, catching alight in the blaze as they tried the great curved doors, barred against their escape. Copper-skinned, rippling with muscles, their goatees braided and dark eyes wide with an unfamiliar terror as flames consumed the great, dusty hall. Braziers had ignited the conflagration: As the _khals_ of the Dothraki screamed and fought against in impossible enemy no blade could subdue, a small woman stood in the very centre of the burning temple - and it _was_ a temple. Larra knew where she was, without ever having been there herself. Those were _khals_, and this was their most holy temple, the home of the _dosh khaleen_ \- the widowed wives of every khal to come before them. She was in Vaes Dothrak, the only city of the horse-lords.

And the _khals_ were being burned alive by a tiny woman with pale silvery-gold hair shimmering and sparkling in the firelight. She stood serenely in the heart of the _dosh khaleen_ as fire raged around her, illuminating her purple eyes until they glowed. She had a heart-shaped face, with a delicate chin and expressive dark eyebrows, a pretty nose and lush lips; it was a haughty face, very beautiful. _Queenly_.

As the roof came down, the last of the _khals_ huddled at the great door, using all their brute strength to try to open it; it held fast. The woman approached the last standing brazier, the flames burning merrily to join the rest, and as she did so, she smiled at the tallest and strongest of the _khals_, whose mouth stood agape as he watched the woman's clothing - Dothraki raiment of a woven grass vest and painted silk trousers - catch alight. The woman lifted her slender hands to the brazier, and heedless of the burning metal, placed her palms upon it: She smiled benignly, and the _khal's_ eyes widened as the flames roared toward him.

Larra had seen men swiftly, cleanly beheaded. Seen them skewered by sword and spear. Seen them torn apart by mindless corpses. Seen them drowned. She had never watched men burning alive. The way their hair caught alight, the way their skin smouldered and blistered before it blackened and cracked with angry red fissures, the stench of their burning skin and their hair, the way their eyeballs melted down their cheeks as their screams turned high-pitched as all sense fled them, leaving only pain…

She felt bile rise in the back of her throat, burning, but refused to look away.

The woman's clothes burned away, leaving her smooth pale skin unmarred, baring her small, high breasts and the pale golden hair between her legs. She did not see Larra; she stared benignly at the _khals_ as they screamed and died in agony, their horsehair vests and oiled braids feeding the fires that consumed them. The largest of the _khals_ glared, and tried to dodge the flames long enough to reach her, his huge hands twitching to choke the life from her.

Weapons were forbidden in Vaes Dothrak, where all _khalasaars_ were one blood. But a _khal_ knew how to kill without one. The flames caught him, before he could reach her. The woman stared with unflinching, bored detachment as the fires consumed him before her eyes: It was the detachment, almost amusement, that made a shiver go up and down Larra's spine.

_Don't look away. Father will know if you do_… Father had always taught them that if they were to take a man's life, they owed it to them to look them in the eye; if they found they could not, perhaps they did not deserve the fate you had condemned them to.

But this…

_This_ was…something else entirely.

There was…_righteousness_, amusement in this woman's eyes that Larra found unsavoury.

Cloaked in the protection of pure zeal, she seemed to be revelling in the deaths she was causing, wielding fire as a weapon. The flames licked at her skin almost lovingly, the _khals'_ screams died, and the great fiery structure started to groan, embers raining down.

Larra was reminded of the Red Woman whom Edd had told her about. A priestess of R'hollor, the Lord of Light. _Only death can pay for life_… She had said so to Jon when she resurrected him, Edd had told Larra.

The woman had burned the _khals_; intending to or not, she had offered them up to the Red God. And he had granted his protection of her in turn, leaving her unharmed by the flames that consumed the Dothraki's most sacred temple.

Huge doors cracked and groaned and fell; the roof started to crumble, and the woman strolled to the entrance. The great fire could be seen for miles; every man, woman and child in Vaes Dothrak gathered to weep and scream and stare in awe and horror as a single small woman traipsed past the smouldering, cracked, unrecognisable bodies of the fierce _khals_ to stand naked before them, her shoulders thrown back, staring imperiously - expectantly - around at the masses gathered, their faces shining with tears at the ruination of their most sacred place, the deaths of their leaders… A single, tiny woman with small tits and shining silver-gold hair and an cool demeanour in the face of true horror, surrounded by fire, and the masses fell to their knees.

She had killed the _khals_ and stepped unscathed from the monstrous pyre she had made for them.

Larra might have been impressed, if she wasn't so sceptical. If she did not dread that eerie serenity, the glitter of arrogance in the woman's eyes as she had pushed that last brazier at the _khals_…if she had not _smiled_ as she set men alight.

It was that glimmer of relish, almost amusement, _victory_ that unsettled Larra, had Father's softly-spoken stories of the Mad King murmuring through her mind.

There was nothing amusing about death, nothing to relish in acts of violence. It was destructive; it caused dark spots to appear on the heart, plaguing the mind…or it _should_.

She distrusted anyone who smiled in the face of suffering of their making.

"Daenerys Stormborn," said a gentle voice in her ear, and Larra jumped, glancing around. Her jaw dropped.

Bran stood beside her.

His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, watching the tiny woman with a detached sort of curiosity, as if she was an unusual beetle he was not quite certain of.

Brandon stood, several inches taller than her, lean as a young wolf. He seemed taller to her because it was so startling to see him fully upright. She had become accustomed to looking down to speak to him. And he was clothed, not in the furs they had wrapped themselves in for years, but in the Northern dress he had grown up in: a quilted tunic under a leather doublet, linens beneath, his boots polished to a shine. Still finer than what Jon had worn. No armour, though. It struck Larra that, especially in his visions, Brandon was still very much vulnerable to harm. He did not wear the direwolf-embellished collar he had donned as _de-facto_ Lord of Winterfell. Nothing about his dress indicated his Stark heritage, only the Northern cut of the doublet. Nothing denoted his allegiance.

Her lips parted, to ask, but she realised even as the thought came, it didn't matter. Inside his mind, Bran was whole. _It is beautiful beneath the sea_…

"Daenerys Targaryen," she said softly, clearing her throat, turning back to the woman. She was similar age to Larra, perhaps a little younger - she _looked_ younger, due to circumstances that never calloused her palms or bruised and scarred her body, sapped the joy from her mind. Larra felt years older than her true age. She was certain she looked them, too. Pain and despair took its toll on the body. "Why did she burn the _khals_?"

Brandon turned dark, glinting eyes on her; behind him, the fire raged, consuming everything, and the temple of the _dosh khaleen_ collapsed, sparks flying a hundred feet into the air, spitting at the crowds pleading supplication to Daenerys Stormborn.

"When her husband died, the wife of Khal Drogo should have returned here to live out her days with the _dosh khaleen_," Brandon murmured, watching Daenerys Stormborn carefully. "She did not: The _khals_ were discussing her fate when she set them alight."

"Her fate?"

"She was their _khaleesi_: Her place was with the crones of all the _khals_ who came before," Brandon said softly. "She dishonoured their traditions when she refused to take up her place as one of the wise-women of the _dosh khaleen_."

"She dishonoured worse when she burned their sacred temple," Larra murmured darkly, frowning at Daenerys Stormborn. A quiet smile haunted the corners of Brandon's lips.

"Daenerys Stormborn killed the _khals_ \- all of them. She proved her physical strength to every _khalasaar_ gathered at Vaes Dothrak."

"Even if it is an illusion?" Larra frowned, and Brandon's smile widened.

"Now, why do you say that?"

"What the Red Woman told Edd…only death can pay for life," Larra said. "She offered those men to the flames; the Lord of Light accepted the offering and granted her protection." Brandon gave her a measuring look, smiling contentedly.

"The Dothraki follow strength. And the most powerful blood-rider gains the best mount. And Daenerys Stormborn…her mount is the most fearsome any _khal_ could ever dream of. Balerion reborn…"

She blinked, and the vision changed. A pure forget-me-not sky made her eyes water, the sun high and hot above. Behind, a column of black smoke rose a thousand feet into the sky, and a river of bodies throbbed as it wound through two enormous horse statues glinting in the sunshine that made the rocks around Larra hiss with the heat, as if they stood among burning embers. Blood-riders on fiery stallions formed the head of the column, led by a _dragon_.

Larra's breath caught in her throat. A _dragon_. A real, live dragon. He was extraordinary. Hulking, reptilian and predatory, elegant and sleek, there was a terrifying beauty to him. Any mammoth Larra had seen in the True North could have walked comfortably down his gullet, and his wings must have spanned two-hundred feet unfurled. They were leathery and black, the tough membranes washed with blood-red as the sun shone through them, his wings snapping and unfurling with the sound of thunder-claps; his horns and spinal-plates were blood-red, and his eyes smouldered like fiery red embers. As he snarled and roared to the sky, Larra saw his teeth, triple rows of fangs longer than her forearms, black as onyx and lethal as the Valyrian steel sword belted at her waist.

Queen Visenya's sword. Her ancestress.

Also the ancestor of Daenerys Stormborn, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. The first dragon-rider in centuries.

"She rides Drogon, named for her dead Dothraki husband," Bran murmured, standing placidly beside Larra as she gazed in wonder, drinking in the dragon, almost aching with grief at the thought that…Bran would've _loved_ to see it; _her_ Bran… So would Arya… She was so consumed with grief over her dead siblings that Larra barely noticed the tiny speck on the dragon's back; a woman with her silvery-gold hair coiled in elaborate plaits that made Larra's fingers twitch to pat her own unkempt braids. It was the first time in a very long time she had considered her appearance at all; she knew she looked half a wildling herself, and it had never mattered until now, narrowing her eyes at the impeccable Khaleesi.

Riding on Drogon's back, Daenerys Stormborn called to the Dothraki blood-riders. "What's she saying to them?" Larra asked, turning to Brandon. He smiled serenely.

"Listen," he said simply, and Larra frowned in the blazing sun to stare at the Khaleesi. Her lips parted in wonder - but of course, these were Brandon's memories now, and he had coaxed her into them; she understood the guttural Dothraki tongue, because Brandon now did.

Her voice raised so the masses could hear, Daenerys Stormborn addressed the column of blood-riders. And Larra listened, and understood: "_Every _khal_ who ever lived chose three blood-riders to fight beside him and guard his way! But I am not a _khal_! I will not choose three blood-riders. I choose you all_!" The blood-riders roared their approval, _arakhs_ raised to the air, their mounts snorting and prancing at the ruckus. "_I will ask more of you than any _khal_ has ever asked of his _khalasaar_!_" Another roar, more _arakhs_ raised to Daenerys Stormborn, dust churning, and the great black dragon shook his spiny head, adding his roar to the din.

Daenerys Targaryen smiled in satisfaction, her eyes a darker due to the black vest she wore, a pearl ring draped on a leather thong around her neck, and raised her voice once more: "_Will you ride the wooden horses across the black salt sea? Will you kill my enemies in their iron suits and tear down their stone houses?_"

Larra narrowed her eyes on the Targaryen girl. _Kill my enemies in their iron suits and tear down their stone houses…_

Stone houses. _Castles_. Westeros.

"_Will you give me the Seven Kingdoms, the gift _Khal_ Drogo promised me before the Mother of Mountains_?" Daenerys Stormborn bellowed, and the khalasaar screamed its support. "_Are you with me? Now…and always_?"

"You are dissatisfied," Brandon murmured to her, and Larra turned her eyes from Daenerys Stormborn with her elaborate braids and terrifyingly beautiful dragon and frowned.

"Yes. Did she succeed? Has she brought the Dothraki across the seas?"

"Yes," Brandon said softly. "One hundred and sixty thousand Dothraki screamers. Seven and a half thousand Unsullied infantry sword- and spearmen, with three thousand training boys. Two thousand Meereenese freed slaves who have taken up arms to support the Breaker of Chain's cause. One hundred ships from the Iron Fleet and three thousand men to crew them, led by Yara and Theon Greyjoy. A combined fleet from Yunkai and Astapor commandeered, along with their crews, after an unsuccessful attack on Slavers' Bay… Even now, an emissary from Dorne resides as guest to Queen Daenerys Targaryen on Dragonstone while they negotiate a potential alliance through the Queen's hand, Tyrion Lannister, and her new Master of Whisperers, Lord Varys: Lady Olenna Tyrell determines to get the measure of the Dragon Queen before committing the forces of the Reach to her cause."

Larra wanted to sit down. She could not catch her breath as she gaped, watching the _khalasaar_ surge past her in the dust.

Over two _hundred_ _thousand_ men at the command of a dragon-rider.

She frowned, glancing over her shoulder, at the dragon now snapping its wings straight. With a sound like the clap of thunder, he launched himself into the sky, beating his wings, churning up dust; Larra raised her arms to guard her face against the sting of sand and dust, but felt nothing. Brandon stood beside her, unflinching.

"It is only memory," he told her gently. "It cannot harm you."

She blinked, lowering her arms. The dust never settled; the greatest _khalasaar_ the world had ever known followed their new Khaleesi on her fierce mount, churning the dust and sand beneath hundreds of thousands of hooves, slaves on foot beside their masters. Vaes Dothrak had emptied.

"Why the Dothraki?" Larra mused, narrowing her eyes on the speck that Drogon had become. "One dragon and half a thousand Unsullied would suit her purposes." She remembered her lessons with Maester Luwin, the convoluted, frustrating, months-long campaigns she and her brothers had designed and played out in _cyvasse_. "Kill her enemies in their armour, and tear down castles? She doesn't need nearly two-hundred thousand Dothraki screamers for that. Why seize leadership of them? What are they, but a deficit to her resources? She intends to invade. _Winter is coming_."

Brandon smiled blandly, and touched her shoulder. She blinked, and started. _Robert_ _Baratheon_ sat at a table, sheer curtains billowing softly in a breeze carrying birdsong into a light, airy room with pale gold stone floors and painted walls, a grand bed carved with vines and antlers, dressed in cotton and richly-embroidered silk. A squire in red was just disappearing through a secret passage, taking away an empty carafe; a full one sat on the inlaid table by Robert's hand, his wine glass full almost to the brim. The door opened, and Cersei Lannister appeared, pausing on the steps. In the soft golden light, the Queen looked almost pretty, with her hair shimmering to her waist, and a layered pink silk gown draped elegantly and belted at the waist with gold plate links. An elegant locket of gold glinted at her breast, a Lannister lion roaring on its face. Hers was drawn in the characteristic frown Larra remembered.

"I'm sorry your marriage to Ned Stark didn't work out," she said gently. "You seemed so good together."

"Glad I could do something to make you happy," Robert said despondently. Even half-drunk, he looked troubled. Cersei sauntered into the chamber, pretty hands clasped before her, a delicate organza shawl draped from her elbows, glinting gold.

"Without a Hand, everything will fall to pieces," she warned, resting her hands on the posts of the empty chair opposite Robert.

"I suppose this is where you tell me to give the job to your brother Jaime," Robert grumbled irritably.

A tiny smile played at Cersei's lips. "No. He's not serious enough. I'll say this for Ned Stark; he's serious enough. Was it really worth it? Losing him this way?" Larra frowned at Brandon; he was watching Robert carefully.

"I don't know," Robert sighed, and set his wine-glass down, rising from his seat. "But I do know this: If the Targaryen girl convinces her horse-lord husband to invade, and the Dothraki horde crosses the Narrow Sea, we won't be able to stop them." Again, Larra glanced at Brandon. This was many years ago; Father was still alive, she was sure, and serving as Robert's new Hand following the death of Jon Arryn.

Robert had _predicted_ Daenerys Targaryen's invasion.

"The Dothraki don't sail, every _child_ knows that," Cersei said, and Robert turned away from her, gazing out of the open window, the pretty balcony that oversaw all of King's Landing, a great, glittering, stinking city of orange and terracotta roofs, sprawling markets, a thriving port-city with the best brothels on the continent and more work for the smallfolk who flocked there hoping for a better life, more entertainments for the indolent and wealthy. "They don't have discipline, they don't have armour. They don't have siege weapons."

"It's a neat little trick you do," Robert sighed. "You move your lips, and your father's voice comes out."

Even as Cersei scoffed gently, Larra smiled to herself: Did they not all become their parents? She echoed Father often enough, as she knew Jon always did. "Is my father wrong?"

"Let's say Viserys Targaryen lands with forty-thousand Dothraki screamers at his back… We hole up in our castles, a wise move. Only a _fool_ would meet the Dothraki in an open field… They leave us in our castles. They go from town to town, looting and burning, killing every man who can't hide behind a stone wall, stealing all our crops and livestock, enslaving all our women and children," Robert said fiercely, and Cersei moved to the table, pouring herself a glass of wine. Robert's voice turned soft, sorrowful, as he asked, "How long do the people of the Seven Kingdoms stand behind their absentee King, their cowardly King hiding behind high walls? When do the people decide that Viserys Targaryen is the rightful monarch after all?!"

Cersei thought before answering, sitting herself down before the table. It struck Larra as an exquisitely intimate moment between Robert and Cersei - between the King and his wife. No courtiers, no servants, just them, sharing a glass of wine, and discussing the greatest threat to Westeros in three centuries. "We still outnumber them."

"Which is the bigger number?" Robert asked her. "Five or one?"

Cersei rolled her eyes impatiently. "Five."

"_Five_," Robert said, holding up his hand, fingers splayed. His other hand, he raised as a fist. "_One_. One army. A real _army_ united behind one leader, with _one_ purpose…" Robert refilled his glass, shaking his head. "Our purpose died with the Mad King. Now we've got as many armies as there are men with gold in their purse. And everybody wants something different. Your father wants to own the world. Ned Stark wants to run away and bury his head in the snow…"

"What do you want?" Cersei asked. Robert smiled sadly, raising his wine-glass. The Queen rolled her eyes, barely hiding her disdain. Robert drained half his glass before he sat, sighing.

"We haven't had a real fight in nine years," he sighed miserably. "Backstabbing doesn't prepare you for a fight, and that's all the realm is now. Backstabbing and scheming and arse-licking and money-grubbing… Sometimes I don't know what holds it together."

"Our marriage," Cersei mused, and Robert started to laugh. They caught each other's eye, and Cersei joined him, smiling. She looked almost pretty.

"So, here we sit, seventeen years later, holding it all together," Robert sighed heavily. "Don't you get tired?"

"Every day," Cersei admitted.

"How long can hate hold a thing together?" Robert pondered miserably.

"Well, seventeen years is…_quite_ a long time."

"Yes, it is," Robert agreed, raising his glass in a toast tinged with irony.

Cersei raised her own glass. "Yes, it is… What was she like?"

Robert went still, staring at his wife. "You've never asked about her, not once. Why now?"

"At first, just saying her name, even in private, felt like I was breathing life back into her. I thought if I didn't talk about her, she'd just…_fade_ _away_ for you," Cersei said softly, and Larra knew who she was speaking of. Lyanna. Her mother. The reason Cersei had had Larra flogged all those years ago; _she_ had breathed life into Lyanna again. "When I realized that wasn't going to happen, I refused to ask out of spite. I didn't want to give you the satisfaction of thinking I _cared_ to ask. And eventually it became clear that my spite didn't mean anything to you; as far as I could tell, you actually enjoyed it!"

"So why now?"

For a long moment, Cersei did not answer. When she did, her words were tinged with sadness and regret. "What harm could Lyanna Stark's ghost do to either of us that we haven't done to each other a hundred times over?"

"You want to know the horrible truth?" Robert sighed, leaning heavily over the table. "Until I saw Ned's bastard girl at Winterfell, smiling, with flowers in her hair…I couldn't even remember what she looked like. She was the one thing I ever wanted. Someone took her away from me, and seven kingdoms couldn't fill the hole she left behind."

Cersei pondered this, then said, "I felt something for you once, you know."

"I know," Robert said sadly.

"Even after we lost our first boy...for quite a while, actually," Cersei said softly. "Was it ever possible for us? Was there ever a time, ever a moment?"

Robert's honesty was terrible, and may have sealed his fate. "No. Does that make you feel better, or worse?"

"It doesn't make me feel anything," Cersei admitted. She set her wine-glass down, and left the King's chamber. She left Robert to his wine, and his regret.

And Larra was left reeling. He had been a reluctant King, but Robert Baratheon had been one of the best military minds of the age. Only once defeated in battle, by Lord Randyll Tarly. He had laid waste to the royalists' armies, defeating every other enemy, he had slain Prince Rhaegar in single-combat in the rushing waters of the Trident, caved in his breast-plate, crushed every rib he had…

If there was one thing Robert Baratheon knew, it was war. He had proven himself an immense warrior, a skilled commander, and a completely disinterested monarch - he had given the Seven Kingdoms nearly eighteen years of almost unbroken peace, but bought that peace at a terrible price, considering all that came after, and all that had happened before.

She had never been to King's Landing, of course, never set foot inside the Red Keep. Had this always been the King's chamber? Would Robert have rested easy in the Mad King's chamber? From what she knew of Robert's bloodlust for dead Targaryens, she thought he might; this might even have been Rhaegar's chamber.

Had her brother and sister played in this room? Rhaenys and baby Aegon. Had their giggles and coos echoed off the golden stone, their mother singing to them, perhaps, as her ladies flocked about her? Perhaps she sat out on the balcony, enjoying the sunshine, yearning for the Water Gardens of her home.

Larra sighed, and turned away from Robert, still drinking his wine, staring morosely at the inlaid table.

"Daenerys Targaryen's husband was dead before his _khalasaar_ could sack enough cities to fund her campaign," Brandon murmured, "but she achieved her aim regardless. Now it is she who rides at the head of the _khalasaar_, who brought Dothraki to Westeros for the first time in our history… How shall Cersei proceed?"

"I know Cersei Lannister very little," Larra frowned, "and the Targaryen girl even less."

"True; but you trained for this with Jon and Robb and Theon," Brandon murmured. "Westeros faces invasion. How would a monarch proceed?"

"Robert made a disinterested king, but he was a strategist to rival Tywin Lannister. I imagine… I imagine he would have been impressed the lad named for him died undefeated in battle," Larra said, thinking of Robb with a twisting, painful, hideous feeling in her gut. "Cersei was foolish and impetuous but has maintained her position this long for a reason. When she learns Daenerys Stormborn has landed in Westeros with armies of Dothraki screamers…she will remember what Robert said; how could she not, when it was the only time she ever asked about Lyanna…"

"So what will Cersei do?"

"She will not allow her armies to hole up behind high walls; but she will remain protected behind them. After all, she is not a warrior-queen. Certainly her brother the Kingslayer will lead her armies," Larra said, after a moment's consideration. "If I were Cersei I would devise a way to destroy the Dothraki without ever having to meet in the field of battle; as her father destroyed the Northern army when he arranged the Red Wedding… I would find a way to kill the dragons before they could turn King's Landing to ash. History tells us they are not invulnerable. Use the past as a weapon against the Mad King's daughter…destroy any credibility before she lands on our shores, unite the lords of Westeros against her to fling her back into the Narrow Sea. Less than Cersei Lannister on the Iron Throne, the lords of Westeros want a return of the Targaryen dynasty."

Her _family_.

"Brandon… We must learn more about Daenerys Targaryen," Larra said softly, dread curdling her stomach as she fully evaluated the implications of Daenerys Targaryen's invasion. She had come to claim the Iron Throne. The _Seven _Kingdoms. Jon was King in the North: the North had declared its independence from the Iron Throne when Robb marched south with the Northern army.

It was always the Starks, who acted as catalyst for rebellion. Rickard and Brandon Stark: Eddard and Robb Stark. A father had gone south to plead for his son's life: A son had raised an army to protect his father's life.

The North would not kneel to a Targaryen queen any more than they would the Lannister one.

Gone were the days the North knelt to anyone.

And history told them what Targaryens did to those who refused to kneel…

"How is it Daenerys Targaryen came to be in Vaes Dothrak, to usurp the _khalasaars_?"

"_That_ is a long journey," Brandon said softly, his eyes alight with something close to merriment, as if he had been waiting for and was delighted by her request. "And I am gratified you are not so wholly consumed with the Night King that you underestimate the threat brewing in the south… There is one thing I would show you before we go…" He smiled softly, and the memory changed…

* * *

**A.N.**: That scene between Robert and Cersei is possibly one of my all-time favourite _GoT_ scenes. Not because Robert waxes nostalgic about his undying love for Lyanna - I'm not sure if that was lust mingled with his ideals of what the perfect woman was, and he overlaid those on Lyanna when he met her - but because it's such a simple scene, and beautifully written. It showed the complexities and nuances of Robert and Cersei's relationship.

I also thought it about damn time that Brandon started using his powers to benefit everyone. He sees all; surely he understands the threat of Daenerys Targaryen's invasion better than anyone? He was educated by Maester Luwin and was a bright boy even before his visions and powers: He'd know that Daenerys has already sacked cities and burned people alive.


	12. Waking the Dragon

**A.N.**: We never get to see Rhaegar or Rhaella or any of them, so I thought I'd bring them in…

So, when I envision Princess Elia, I think of Gal Gadot in her stunning red gown at the Vanity Fair after-party at last year's Oscars. Gal Gadot also has that rich, husky voice and sweet smile, and a subtle, sultry elegance I think would have come naturally to Elia.

For reference, when Rhaegar sings, I hear Pavarotti and Bocelli - the song he sings is the High Valyrian equivalent of _Nessun Dorma_ with a hint of _Con te Partiro_. Because I seriously sob any time I hear either of those songs!

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_12_

_Waking the Dragon_

* * *

The Mad King was hideous to look upon. He brought to her mind the Night King's wights.

Beard untrimmed and wild, matted and unwashed, his hair fell in thick tangles to his waist, glinting a dull steely-silver in the light of thousands of candles. His fingernails were long, cracked and brittle, yellowed, untrimmed. His face was sunken and gaunt from malnutrition, his eyes bloodshot, heavy black bruises hanging beneath them from exhaustion. There was something faraway and distracted in his eyes, but at times they glinted with a sharp, suspicious lucidity. He was richly clothed, and wore on his head a huge, almost ungainly crown of deep red-gold, sitting low and heavy on his head, each of its points a dragon-head set with gemstone eyes that glinted in the candlelight, giving them an almost sentient feel. The crown of Aegon IV - Aegon the Unworthy.

_Apt_, Larra thought, cringing away from the madman in horror and disgust. She had _heard_ \- it was another thing entirely to _see_…

The King sat at the head table in a grand hall opulently decorated for feasting and celebrations - she remembered the Great Hall at Winterfell decorated with greenery and sweet herbs and white flowers from the glasshouses in preparation for King Robert's arrival: The garlands of vibrant, unusual flowers wreathed around the hall with sashes of vibrant silks put all their weeks of preparation to shame. The air was redolent with the perfume of tens of thousands of flowers - camellias and rhododendrons and roses of every colour, delicate jasmine and sweet orange-blossoms, unusual irises and elegant calla lilies, dangling chandeliers of orchids of a dozen colours and sizes, deep purple chrysanthemums and velvety white peonies, scented astilbe and hydrangea blossoms the size of her head, honeysuckle and columbines, showy gladioli and foxgloves, penstemons, hundreds of dahlias and alstroemeria, velvety golden-tongued blood-red snapdragons, waxy tuberoses and a hundred different kinds of perfumed narcissi. Their perfume mingled with the scents of the hundreds of nobles gathered, with the aromas of rich foods displayed for the feasters, the braziers burning with sweet herbs and the enormous hearths alive with firelight that sent sparks crackling and dancing, wafting tendrils of fragrant smoke to the older lords and ladies sharing potent tipples on elegant chaises, observing the dancers and playing dice games. It was almost stifling in the great hall: At the high windows, the shutters open and draped with samite, fat snowflakes drifted lazily past, glowing in the moonlight. Fine white linens clothed the sweeping feast-tables, which were groaning with decadence, gold glinting and fine crystal sparkling in the light of the thousands of candles, exquisite delicacies - cherries soaked in liqueur, gilded chestnuts, tiny delicate pastries filled with flavoured cream and glazed with caramel and decorated in elaborate towers with flowers, tiny dishes of sweetmeats dotted about and trenchers of fine cheeses, crusty bread, pickles and chutneys - displayed for the feasters to pick at as they finished the savoury courses and high in a gallery an orchestra played beautifully: Hundreds of dancers ignored their King as they enjoyed themselves, dancing a more boisterous country dance made elegant for the court.

Larra's stomach jolted. There they were.

Her family.

Benjen was young - perhaps ten, the same age Bran had been when he fell: He had Jon's narrow pale face and dark glinting eyes, but this was not the Benjen of Larra's memory - this was the boy Benjen, long before he had taken the black, when his family had been whole, and the world theirs to explore and enjoy. He danced eagerly with a slim young woman with long dark hair and expressive eyebrows, thoughtful, kind grey eyes and a beautiful smile that flashed out of nowhere - _wolfish_ \- and stunned casual observers, making them do a double-take. She wore a fine grey gown embroidered from the hem to her knees with silver winter-roses glinting with tiny beads; the modest neckline was decorated with a high collar all Northern noblewomen wore, stormy-grey silk adorned with silver direwolves at the points and embroidered heavily with Northern flowers Larra could name by scent blindfolded. The girl's hair was loose to her waist, except for the coil of twists and braids drawn from her face to the back of her head, the hairstyle Northern ladies called a crown - the same hairstyle Larra had always adopted for feasts and formal occasions: Lyanna had woven tiny white snow-bells and sprigs of palest purple-white lavender into her braids, decorating her crown.

"'Tis no wonder Father's smile always died at the sight of me," Larra said sorrowfully, her heart burning as she gazed at her _mother_.

For the very _first time_.

Larra's heart stuttered.

Lyanna's beauty was wild, unpolished; her laughter was free, her smiles wolfish and untamed. She danced with an unconscious enthusiasm, and enjoyed herself without constraint. Her gown was not the finest in the hall, by any stretch: She was not the most refined. But there was an earthiness, a natural charisma and joy that lit Lyanna from within. It shone in her eyes and made her smiles earnest and entrancing, and desired; half the men who saw her smile found themselves half in love with Lyanna Stark, wanting to ensure she smiled again - and just for them.

"You are very like her, in many ways," Brandon said softly. "But you are not Lyanna reborn. Father knew that. You are utterly yourself, and always have been." Larra turned to look at her brother - Brandon was watching with heartbroken sorrow as Lyanna danced with a roguishly handsome, huge man with the Stark direwolf emblazoned at the breast of his fine wool tunic - he had Father's impressive square jaw but Benjen's inky dark hair, and his smile was more boisterous. Her Uncle Brandon. There was a lot of Robb in his face, Larra thought, a blade twisting in her gut as she watched. Clusters of young ladies flocked about Brandon, eyeing him as if they were dying of thirst in a desert, and he was the oasis to save their lives. All around Lyanna, fine silks shimmered and jewelled hair-nets shone, but it was Lyanna, dancing with her wild smile and pretty flowers and modest neckline, who drew the gaze of half the men and women gathered at Harrenhall.

Including Prince Rhaegar.

Larra could not swallow the lump that rose in her throat when she saw him, staring at her mother across the great hall. Her heart thumped inside her chest, hurting.

This was it. The beginning of their family's misfortune that had plagued them for two successive generations.

She had always been told Rhaegar was beautiful. He was. Not the way she remembered Jaime Lannister, beautiful and golden, and almost too perfectly handsome, or even her brothers, with fierce jaws and solemn eyes and unexpected grins. Rhaegar's face was solemn, his features even and masculine, and very compelling to look upon. He had passed his lips on to Larra and Jon, and his cheekbones - high, sharper than Valyrian steel… And he was _tall_, very tall, deceptively slender-looking in his tailored tunic; he had broad shoulders, and a muscular torso and strong legs. A warrior's build. Jon had Rhaegar's broad flat shoulders but was slenderer in Larra's memory than Rhaegar, and Larra doubted life at Castle Black and beyond the Wall had done much to bulk him up since she saw him last. Jon had the shape of Rhaegar's eyes, but the colour of their mother's Stark grey eyes, so dark they appeared almost black in certain light.

Larra had Rhaegar's eyes exactly. Deep violet, almost indigo.

And his glinted in the candlelight, watching Lyanna as if entranced, sweeping from the glittering hem of her gown to her narrow waist - a tiny hourglass waistline Larra had inherited - to her high, plump breasts and the shine of her dark hair as she twirled and danced and smiled. With a jolt, finding herself weak-kneed and stunned as she gaped, Larra realised Lyanna was dancing with _Robert_. She had only ever seen him overweight and unhappy. Robert, the Lord of Storm's End, a young man in his prime, honed for battle, was _handsome_. Fiercely handsome, dark-haired, with vibrant eyes and an impish, unconcerned air; he gazed at Lyanna as if she was the _only_ woman in the world. Lyanna's smile had cooled as she danced with him: Her eyes flitted to her older brother, to Ned, who looked down at the floor almost shame-facedly before turning his gaze to a pretty violet-eyed lady in a lilac silk gown, her dark hair glittering with silver jewels. Lady Ashara Dayne, once rumoured to be Larra's mother…

The music forced a change of partner as the dance changed: Rhaegar sipped his wine, watching Lyanna over the gilt rim of the crystal glass, a yearning, hungry, sorrowful look on his face.

He sighed, shoulders rising and falling, and slipped into an empty chair beside a startlingly beautiful olive-skinned woman with twinkling dark eyes and a delicate demeanour, draped in a glinting blood-red, sleeveless gown cut simply and sensuously, without corseting or darts for shape, a trailing hemline and a neckline cut with sensual elegance to the navel, hinting at her tiny breasts and showing a faint glimmer of silvery-pink scars on her flat belly - the mark of motherhood. Draped from her slender throat, glittering sensuously all the way to her navel, was a necklace of gold filigree sunbursts and soaring dragons linked together, set with rubies and garnets. Her black hair shone as it wove to her waist, tucked away from her face to show off her delicate cheekbones and glinting dark eyes. She wore a gauzy shawl of gold Qartheen lace draped over her elbows, and looked slightly ill but incredibly lovely as she sipped apricot liqueur and played a game of cards with her lady-in-waiting, just about hiding her winces of discomfort as she fidgeted subtly in her high-backed chair piled with cushions.

She made such a striking figure, with her glossy hair and her simple gown and sensuous eyes and that glittering necklace, the rich colours of gold and blood-red so exquisite against her skin, for the first time in years, Larra's hands twitched to grind pigments and drench herself in the odour of turpentine and _paint_…

One day she would paint Princess Elia. Hers was an exquisite beauty that deserved to be immortalised… And with Jon declared King in the North, an independent kingdom - they had to think of the future, of overtures that must be made to other sovereign nations: How long could Cersei Lannister maintain dominion over the elusive, dangerous Martells when Targaryens, with all their dragons, could not?

Amends must be made. And no two Houses had suffered more at Targaryen hands than the Martells and the Starks. One sister and her two babies, an uncle: A father, a son, a daughter. Their deaths had forever shaped the world in which Larra lived, in which Jon was now a declared King and had to rebuild from the destruction created by civil wars.

Two civil wars, spanning two generations: Provoked first by the Targaryens, and then by their successors the Lannisters.

It was Houses Stark and Martell who had suffered the brunt of their cruelty. They had lost too much. Though their cultures were opposite as fire and ice, Larra thought they had common ground. That had to be enough to make a start…

As Rhaegar joined Princess Elia, the lady-in-waiting stacked the painted cards neatly and slipped away, leaving husband and wife to lean in to each other and converse under cover of the noise of the festivities. The candlelight glinted off Rhaegar's pale golden-silver hair, illuminating his eyes to an impossible deep purple, and it was clear to Princess Elia that her husband's gaze would remain riveted on the girl in the grey gown with her infectious smile no matter what they spoke of. There was an amused, fond, almost indulgent look in Elia's pretty dark eyes, as she gazed between them, Rhaegar tenderly stroked her hand, murmuring to her in spite of his distraction.

"You are in discomfort," Rhaegar said finally, when Lyanna had disappeared from his view, to enjoy a drink with her brothers and catch her breath, murmuring quietly with Ned Stark and frowning at Robert Baratheon, who was flirting shamelessly with a cluster of young ladies glittering with jewels and swathed in asymmetric gowns Larra would have associated with Cersei Lannister, had she been in power, and present at the tourney. Larra gazed yearningly after her family, but Brandon remained focused on the royal couple: She had to stay. Rhaegar gave Elia a thoughtful, considerate look, shaking his head. "The journey was too much, and too soon."

"The decision was made when Lord Varys whispered into your father's ear of Lord Whent's tourney," Elia said, her voice rich and soft and accented, bringing to Larra's mind spices and exotic perfumes and indolent afternoons lazing in the perfumed shades of a bright hot sun she had never experienced. There was also a bite to her tone, the sting of the poison her family was known for. Her dark eyes flicked briefly to the King, staring agitatedly but unseeingly into the writhing masses dancing boisterously in spite of his presence. Rhaegar's eyes fell on his father, and a cold rage flitted across his face ever so briefly - a second, and it was gone, but Larra saw it, saw the muscle ticking in his jaw the same way Jon's did when he was trying to control his fury - and Elia saw it. "This tourney would have been the perfect opportunity to declare you intend to marry again."

Rhaegar blinked, startled, and turned to his wife, looking appalled.

"I _do_?"

Elia's smile was sad but accepting. "You yearn for more children, Rhaegar, I see it every time you are with our daughter; you ache to ensure her childhood, Aegon's, is nothing like your own lonely one. You would fill the nursery to bursting with babies if you could."

"_El_…" he sighed, shaking his head, his indigo eyes wide. "We have Rhaenys and our little Egg, and are blessed to have both. _And_ you. Do you think I am so selfish I'd risk you just to put another babe in your belly?"

"If they take after me, our children shall not live long. Your mother's luck proves that there is no certainty though the babe survives birth," Elia said, grimly and honestly, glancing at the King once more as Rhaegar gaped; a chair sat empty beside the King, Queen Rhaella's seat. He had forbidden her from leaving the Red Keep in years, long before the Defiance of Duskendale, and young Prince Viserys was absent also. Viserys, one pregnancy out of a dozen to come to term after Rhaegar's birth, Rhaella's only child after Rhaegar to survive past infancy. And Elia had always endured her fragile health as best she was able, though she had remained bedridden half a year after her daughter's birth, and delivering her son had almost cost her life.

Rhaegar knew it: He had no answer.

"You need another wife," Elia murmured, though her anguish at the idea poured into her voice, flinching as she said it. "For the good of the realm you must father more children, and I…I cannot carry another child." As if to compound her statement, she shifted on her cushions, and a sharp gasp had Rhaegar looking anxiously at her; pain flitted across her face, her cheeks going pale, and she settled back in her chair slowly, breathing out through her mouth, eyes half-closed. "All things must end, love… Tywin would offer his daughter and his support."

"Tywin has too much strength already," Rhaegar said grimly, shaking his head. "And I mistrust the girl."

"Why so?" Elia asked gently.

"There were other ways to spite and insult Lord Tywin," Rhaegar said thoughtfully, watching his father, who sat festering, blind to the celebrations, not touching the food or drink set before him. "The empty Kingsguard position was not intended for Ser Jaime…Lord Varys mentioned something about Cersei Lannister and her twin-brother, something…worrying. Only a Targaryen would not find it distasteful…"

"Isn't all news Varys brings distasteful?" Elia asked, with a clipped, almost disdainful tone. She frowned, and glanced at Rhaegar, then across the hall, her lips parting with realisation, as they landed on handsome young Jaime Lannister with his golden hair and irreverent emerald eyes. "You surely don't mean -?"

"Varys says it was Cersei who approached by father with the idea to naming Jaime Lannister… There were rumours Tywin intended him for Lysa Tully."

"Take the white cloak of the brothers…take no wife," Elia murmured, watching Jaime Lannister dancing. "And yet Tywin took Cersei from the capital when your father named Jaime to the Kingsguard."

"Not quite what Cersei expected," Rhaegar said, with a twist to his mouth, a glint in his eyes.

"And how would she have been certain she would remain in the capital?" Elia asked, but even as she did, her eyes narrowed. "Ah…Aegon."

"The entire court awaited news you would survive his birth," Rhaegar said, an angry undercurrent to his tone that had Elia resting her elegant hand on his arm. "I imagine Tywin would have been the first to offer condolences and a choice bride."

"He is far more subtle than that," Elia murmured. "An alliance, with the promise of you un-naming his heir to the Kingsguard, the position of Hand returned to him under your regency… Tywin will always bide his time… He knows what is happening at court, Pycelle will see to that. Tywin will be waiting to see what _you_ do, Rhaegar."

"I know what I have to do… I should have done it years ago: My Uncle Maester tells me I must kill the boy…'kill the boy Rhaegar, and let the man be born, the man who would be King'," Rhaegar said miserably. "The man who would depose his own father, no matter how much he loves him…for the good of his people." Rhaegar watched the Mad King with a mixture of dread and sorrow - in that moment, he was a son heartbroken by the loss of the father he remembered, the mind of the man he had loved fracturing irreparably before his eyes. He was old enough to have witnessed his father's deterioration - Larra had worked it out during her lessons; Rhaegar had been eighteen years old during the Defiance of Duskendale. The question of how history may have unfolded had not Ser Barristan the Bold single-handedly rescued the King was one that had consumed hours of her and her brothers' study with Maester Luwin.

"How shall you go about it? King's Landing is a nest of vipers - and coming from a Martell you know this is not an exaggeration," Elia murmured, and Rhaegar's lips quirked with subtle amusement. "Where can you ensure the support you desperately need, to ensure the transition goes smoothly?"

"I don't know…" Rhaegar looked suddenly exhausted, and he rubbed his brilliant indigo eyes, his expression pained. "This tourney should have provided the perfect opportunity to find out."

"Perhaps it still shall," Elia mused, thoughtfully watching the dancers, and a skimpily-clad woman from Volantis tumbling past, amusing several young lords. Elia sighed. "The scandal of you setting me aside to remarry - the mad scurry of all the lords of Westeros rushing to provide your new bride - would give ample concealment of your true intention to solidify alliance to imprison your father and enforce a regency."

Rhaegar gulped visibly, his indigo eyes widening, and he slowly set his wine-glass down. "_Imprison_?"

Elia's face was fierce for a moment, her voice losing its sultriness in favour of a sternness that Larra remembered in the Northern voices of her childhood. "If you do not confine him soon, someone will take opportunity to kill him in spite of all his precautions. You know this. You know there are those at court who are willing to die for you by killing him. You _know_ you do not want an innocent person condemned to death for regicide when you can prevent things escalating further."

"I know it. I dread it," Rhaegar admitted, his shoulders drooping with grief. He shook his head, silky golden-silver hair past his shoulders glinting in the candlelight. "You have more faith in my abilities than I do."

"There's not a person in the world who could do this…except you. I believe that with every fibre of my _being_." Rhaegar leaned in, and tenderly kissed his wife's lips; he stroked her cheek with his thumb, and sighed, resting his brow against hers, eyes closed, relaxed for the briefest moment with her. "You were gone all day; your father was looking for you. Arthur tells me you wandered the godswood, searching for the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Did you find him?"

"I found the steely strength and honour of a true knight, indeed," Rhaegar said, settling back in his chair, and betraying himself by seeking out Lyanna Stark among the dancers, an amused glint in his eyes that transformed his entire face, making his compelling features warm, entrancing. "But the Knight of the Laughing Tree was a mirage…"

"Much like this tourney," Elia murmured, glancing around the vibrant hall with its exotic Volanteen dancers and tumblers, its flowers and fools. Her eyes rested on Lyanna Stark, now dancing with Ser Jaime Lannister, youngest-ever initiate of the Kingsguard, a gilded lion in his prime - and no longer any competition to the young lords gathered at Harrenhall set upon sealing contracts for marriage with the ladies present. Lyanna smiled beautifully as she danced with Ser Jaime, but - and Larra knew it from personal experience - the thrill of Ser Jaime's outward beauty was dimmed by his arrogance. Lyanna's smile was wild and bright, her cheeks pink from wine and dancing, and she laughed breathlessly at something, before leaping and twirling to the music, away from Ser Jaime to her new partner. "She has a fierce beauty, doesn't she? I do not recognise her face from court."

"Northerners stay in the North," Rhaegar said, almost miserably, a yearning look in his eyes as he followed Lyanna twirling around the hall. "That is Lyanna, Lord Rickard Stark's only daughter."

Elia blinked, and glanced back at Lyanna, now dancing with a young lord from the Neck who was not a natural dancer - Larra recognised the sigil upon his breast, and for a moment, she was startled - it was _Jojen_. But it couldn't be… She flicked her gaze at Brandon, who was watching young Howland Reed with a sorrowful, wistful grimace that made Larra think…perhaps he was still in there, her Bran… Realisation flickered in Elia's dark eyes, and Larra thought of the reputation of Elia's eldest brother, the cunning Prince Doran. "The Starks honour the Old Gods."

"They do," said Rhaegar, giving his wife a sidelong look; they could not keep secrets from each other, Larra realised.

"I have never seen you _mesmerised_ by a woman before…" Elia said thoughtfully, watching Lyanna curiously. "What did you speak to Lyanna Stark about all day in the godswood?"

"Knighthood." There was an ironic little tilt to the corners of Rhaegar's lips as he smiled. His eyes glittered with enthusiasm.

"Perhaps the Lady Lyanna desires to be knighted by royalty," Elia said, hiding a smirk, trailing a fingertip along her husband's arm. He quirked one eyebrow - a talent he had bequeathed to his twin children Jon and Larra - and glanced at Elia.

"The Northerners pay no mind to knighthood, and even less to southern royalty," he said, almost gloomily. Elia's lips twitched.

"And yet you cannot look away. She _is_ intoxicating," Elia admitted without envy, watching Lyanna, now dancing with Ser Arthur Dayne - she had a breathless awe in her face that Larra would have recognised in a polished glass; Larra had always been half in love with the Sword of the Morning. Elia's dark eyes twinkled with flirtatious amusement as she turned to Rhaegar: "She has such wonderful hips…and those breasts…how _succulent_." The way she said _succulent_, as if savouring the word with her tongue, lingering and erotic, made Larra shiver from her nipples to her knees, warming everything between. She had always heard of Elia's frail health and assumed by nature she was also reclining and gentle: But there was the Dornish flair in her after all, a seductive indolence and glimmer of danger - the danger of an educated woman who knew her husband. "I imagine a direwolf would birth you a formidable litter."

"And what about you? Shall I become Maegor to secure more heirs?" Rhaegar asked, and Larra thought he was angry - almost ashamed, absolutely offended by the comparison, the idea that Elia would propose it to him. "Shall we share Dragonstone, the three of us, and raise our brood of children together?"

"The Faith will not accept it, you know this, though it would be to everyone's benefit to allow it…" Elia sighed, shaking her head. A whisper of spicy perfume teased Larra's nose, a direct contrast to the crisp white floral scents she remembered wearing as a girl. It was an exotic and inimitable fragrance that had died with Elia, never to be recaptured.

"I remember your stance on polygamy," Rhaegar said fondly, his lips almost smiling.

"More damage has been done through your family's incest than through their polygamy. Maegor was one man: Targaryen intermarriage created a dozen more of his ilk," Elia said, with a sharpness that surprised Larra, her dark eyes lingering on the King for a heartbeat. Aerys II Targaryen was now named beside Maegor the Cruel and Aegon the Unworthy in terms of his insanity, his cruelty, and his ineptitude as a monarch.

"And what happens to you?" Rhaegar challenged her, turning to his wife after refilling her cordial glass. "What shall I tell your brothers when I cast you back to the Water Gardens, still healing from delivering the last child I gave you?"

"You needn't tell them anything. I shall," Elia said benignly, and she smiled beautifully and sighed, closing her eyes. She rested against the high-backed chair. "To be among my family again… It is all I want. To see my children play among the orange-trees with their cousins…"

"Gods. Rhaenys shall wield a _glaive_ before she is five. I do wonder if Arthur would flee from her," Rhaegar said drily, and Elia's lips quirked into a beautiful smile, though her eyes were closed, resting, perhaps reminiscing, her elegant hands folded over her navel as if remembering her recent pregnancies, and perhaps yearning for the next child she could never have. Rhaegar watched her sorrowfully; he reached over and squeezed her delicate hands with one of his own huge ones, and Elia's dark eyes opened to see Rhaegar leaning in for a delicate kiss that became consuming.

Their relationship was complex, as all marriages seemed to be.

"I _adore_ you. You do know that," he said softly against her lips, Elia breathless, tugging on the sleeve of his tunic, and she nodded her head subtly, her eyes on his as he kissed her again, lazily. Larra wanted to look away, her cheeks warm, a surge of loneliness filling her with sadness.

"You _will_ find a way, Rhaegar," Elia sighed against his lips, dusting his jaw with kisses. She stroked his cheek with her thumb, a delicate ring with a citrine set into a gold sunburst glinting on her finger. "If there is no precedent, you shall set it. A modern way to manage royal marriage."

"A modern way?" Rhaegar chuckled, though the warmth of it did not quite reach his eyes. "Preferable to beheadings and war."

"A modern way that protects our children's place in the line of succession," Elia said carefully, a flair of pride and determination tilting her chin up, "and ensures another takes my place to help you fulfil your duties to the crown…just in case… You married me out of duty. This time, you can marry for love. Marry a woman of your choosing, and be _happy_, Rhaegar. No matter what happens, choose wisely, and let yourself love her - allow yourself to be loved _by_ her. You must let someone past those walls you have built so assiduously."

He kissed her once more, deep and lingering, and again Larra was reminded of the complexities of marriage, having observed the quiet companionship of Robert and Cersei. She remembered Ned's marriage to Catelyn, strong and enduring - and tainted by Ned's love for Larra's mother; Catelyn loved Ned and despised his children out of jealousy of their mother.

Rhaegar may not have been _in love_ with Elia, but it was very clear he did love her, respected her wisdom and shared companionship with her. They adored their children. They enjoyed each other. If not for the fact Rhaegar was not in love with Elia, and not truly happy, it would have been ideal.

Larra thought Rhaegar was blessed: And taking Elia _utterly_ for granted.

Who was truly _happy_? And how long did that joy last?

What was ecstasy - a brief moment of brilliant, shocking delight, over too soon - compared to constant, steady friendship, companionship, respect?

How rare was it to find _both_ in one's partner in life?

Larra had a deep well of joy to draw from, from her childhood - in spite of Lady Catelyn's best efforts - and her memories were all that had sustained her the last few years, bittersweet as they were.

But Rhaegar's conversation with Elia added another layer to the mystery of why the Last Dragon, the famed poet-warrior who sang to orphans and tradesmen in the streets, a champion in the lists, respected and admired by the Seven Kingdoms in spite of the Rebellion, had abandoned his wife to pursue a wild Northern girl, and torn the kingdoms apart with civil war - something Larra knew implicitly, from this conversation alone, that Rhaegar was trying actively to avoid.

And she realised why he had not simply seized control, confining his father and imposing a regency: Rhaegar did _care_ what others thought of him. Asking Elia how he could possibly explain his actions to her brothers when he dishonoured her by ending their marriage… Imprisoning his father to seize control: It _mattered_ to him how his reign began. He had married Elia, at his father's command: He was a dutiful son, and an honour-bound, dutiful prince who worried about the realm. And it was for the realm he held back from taking action, lest it spark widespread conflict beyond his control to maintain…

He had made a colossal error in keeping things secret, in an attempt to prevent a civil war…

Ser Arthur approached, bowing formally to the Princess with a glint in his eye and a smile she returned fondly; he addressed Rhaegar, in a soft, rich voice like velvet and smoke. Subtle and commanding, like the Sword of the Morning himself. "They want a song, Rhaegar."

"Of course they do," Elia chuckled, shaking her head and smiling adoringly at her husband, laughing fondly as Rhaegar made a show of groaning, though his eyes were smiling. "Keep them sweet."

The dancers had stopped, the music gentling; people were murmuring, laughing, turning to the royal couple. It could not be plainer that they were here for Prince Rhaegar: The King's presence was an unwanted anomaly, and he was largely ignored - dangerous, considering the King's malleable moods, but in that moment, Larra doubted the King was lucid at all. A gentle, expectant hush fell over the hall, and Rhaegar chuckled to himself as he climbed out of his seat. Everyone rose - he was the Crown Prince, after all, and etiquette demanded it - he glanced around, sipping from his glass and waving his hand to coax everyone to sit.

Rhaegar, their Crown Prince, stood for them, _entertaining _them at their request. And he looked happy to do so; he gestured at the orchestra gathered in the gallery, and the crowd sighed as he started to sing.

Larra's eyes burned, her throat closing painfully around a hot lump.

Everyone said Rhaegar had preferred singing to killing: He was excellent at both, but enjoyed only one. He was not Robert Baratheon, honed for war, and left to rust when idle. Rhaegar was a poet, a singer. And his _voice_…

They said he liked to sing. They said women wept at the sound of his voice. Until Larra heard it, she had no idea, truly, how gifted Rhaegar was. His voice was deep, rich and smooth, and he had been trained, she could tell; he projected his voice above the musical instruments, so that every last child and elderly lord and servant in the hall could hear him, as if he stood beside them, singing only to them.

He sang in High Valyrian, but it did not matter: The music, Rhaegar's voice, the composition of the piece of music…

Larra knew this song.

She had heard it in her dreams. One day, she had started humming it; dreams had gifted her the words, and she had practiced singing it every day for weeks.

She remembered the look of horror on her father's bloodless face when she had stood on a table in the Great Hall at Winterfell, singing to the King and his court held entranced by the bastard of Winterfell's voice… This song, _Rhaegar's_ song. Rhaegar had a deep voice, what Maester Luwin would have called, in the Valyrian tongue, a _tenor_ vocal range. Larra…she was somewhere between a _mezzo_ and a _soprano_ \- and not nearly as well-trained as Rhaegar.

She had never, in all her life, heard anyone sing the way he did. The music, the composition, his voice…

Tears ran down her cheeks, utterly heartbroken.

Besides painting, music was one of her greatest joys: She had always loved to sing, to experiment with the few musical instruments that made their way to Winterfell. There were few at Winterfell to teach her the technique Rhaegar had mastered.

She was not the only one crying. Old men gazed breathlessly at Rhaegar, shakily catching their breath as the music swelled and abruptly ended in perfect synchronisation with Rhaegar's voice: Girls wiped their eyes on the sleeves of their gowns, and warmongering young lords blinked, stupefied. Elia Martell gazed at Rhaegar as every man wanted to be gazed upon by his wife: Utterly, irrevocably in love with him.

Rhaegar's eyes sought Lyanna in the crowd: His smile was startled and amused and he laughed softly, as he watched Lyanna upturn a glass of wine on her brother's head, her face shining with tears. Beside her, young Benjen was clapping enthusiastically, smiling with pure childish delight at the Crown Prince.

The Crown Prince bowed to his audience. The song, the bow - simple acts of humility that ceded power to his lords and ladies, and earned their respect.

_Showmanship_, Larra wanted to call it. Rhaegar knew who his people were, and what they wanted, and chose his moments to give it to them - in ceding power by singing at their request, Rhaegar had only solidified his position with his people.

_Very clever_.

"He was clever," she said sadly. She shook her head, and glanced at Brandon, asking miserably, "Why was it always the cleverest of men who make such staggering blunders?"

Brandon smiled sadly, and the hot, perfumed hall melted away. They were in a new place.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon, perhaps, in summer - or the South. The stone floor of the chamber was pale gold and the walls were painted beautifully, a sweeping frieze of songbirds - and elegant, stylised dragons that had a sinuous, eerie, spine-tingling beauty. The light was gentle as it filtered through sheer curtains over the balcony, glinting in the froths of pale curls spilling over a woman's slim shoulders to her waist, soft, warm-toned golden hair with delicate silver lights glinting whenever a shaft of sunlight shone through the sheer curtains, sighing in the breeze that smelled of sunshine, brine and heavily-perfumed flowers.

The woman sat at a chaise, exquisitely elegant, and in spite of a dramatic difference in their colouring, Larra was reminded vividly of Cersei: The cut of her gown had the same asymmetric draping, delicate satin ribbon ties to bind the wrapped layers of shimmering iridescent silk so thin Larra was sure she could read raven-scrolls through it, in soft tones of pale lavenders, lilacs and silver. The billowing sleeves were lined with shimmering opalescent organza embroidered with silver and glinting beads. The woman's waist was cinched with a sash of citrine brocade, and over this she wore a belt of gilt-embossed silver links etched exquisitely with stylised dragons. Around her wrists, she wore two elegant gold cuffs fashioned like sinuous, winged dragons - the three-headed dragon of the Targaryen sigil. There were hints of old bruises and scratches on her pale skin, revealed by her billowing sleeves as if she had long forgotten to try to hide them: A shawl of finest Qartheen lace, delicate as spider-silk, was draped over her elbows, again reminding Larra of Cersei Lannister. There was the subtlest trim of lilac velvet at the neckline, which came to a high point, revealing nothing but the base of a slender white throat, and the hints of old bruises and even a bite mark, slowly healing. Larra stared at it for a second. She knew, of course, who this woman was.

Set upon her grandmother's rampant curls was a delicate circlet of silver and gold, not elaborate or heavily jewelled, just pretty, understated. Simple and elegant.

Queen Rhaella. She was breathtakingly beautiful. And the resemblance to Daenerys Targaryen was extraordinary. They were not identical, of course; but Daenerys had the same shape of eyes, and though this woman's mouth was smaller, her lips were pretty, budding like a rose - Larra's lips. There was something quiet and dignified about her: This was a woman who did not need to reveal an inch of flesh to have a crowd in thrall to her. Her face was oval-shaped and solemn, and her daughter had inherited her cheekbones, and the shape of her eyebrows; the Queen's were pale gold, hovering anxiously over delicate lilac eyes.

"Now, you remember the most important thing?" she asked the little boy who stood before her, as she carefully knotted the high, scale-embroidered collar of his tunic with corded ties tipped with silver points like dragon-teeth. He fidgeted in the heat, uncomfortable in a fine, sleeveless overcoat, heavily embroidered with the Targaryen sigil, with sharp peaks at the shoulders that recalled Drogon's spines, over a tailored leather tunic with split, peaked cuffs. He had the Targaryen silver-gold hair and pale-lilac eyes identical to his mother's in colouring, though not in shape.

"Mmm…?" the little boy said, glancing away from a large gilded cage that spread across almost an entire wall, where brightly-coloured songbirds hopped and chirped merrily in spite of their captivity.

"You must remember, Viserys, not to _wake the dragon_," said Queen Rhaella, with a kind urgency that was terrible to hear, her elegant hands gentle on his slim shoulders, veiled terror mingled with gentleness in her expression, a mother's love pouring from beautiful eyes that seemed shuttered.

"I remember, Mother!" he chirped happily. "Shall Father give me sweets, do you think?"

"Only if you are _very_ good," Queen Rhaella assured him warmly, smoothing his shimmering hair, and he grinned. Tiny white teeth glinted in the sunlight.

"Surely he shall! I know _all_ the names of the dragons now!" he said proudly, puffing out his little chest.

"Your father should like to hear them," Queen Rhaella said softly, her expression as she gazed down at her youngest surviving son. He did not notice the bruises on his mother's skin, or the bite-mark healing at the neckline of her gown, or the way the warmth and gentleness disappeared from her face in an instant as two septas and a lady-in-waiting appeared, replaced with something stark and terrified and then - nothing. Only her face, expressionless; betraying nothing, not even her own suffering.

Prince Viserys had not noticed the scars of her mother's abuse; perhaps he saw them so often that they were not remarkable.

But Rhaegar, who slipped into the chamber after the little prince disappeared, noticed immediately. His searing indigo eyes went straight to his mother's throat, the bruised bite-mark flirting with the neckline of her gown, winking from behind her shimmering curls - thick, heavy, riotous curls that ringleted and coiled, waved and danced wildly with every movement, as pale as her granddaughter's were dark: Larra had inherited Queen Rhaella's curls.

In contrast to the little prince who had skipped away with his septas, perfectly groomed, and the memory of Rhaegar at Harrenhall, dressed for a feast, Rhaegar appeared in dusty breeches and boots, the asymmetric collar of his black wool tunic open almost rakishly, his broad chest sheened with sweat, and a sword strapped to his back.

His had a dangerous glint in his eyes as they rested on that bruised skin, for only a heartbeat; then Queen Rhaella seemed to return to herself, saw her son, and Larra could never have accused him of a temper, his face betraying no anger. Mother and son had mastered the same technique of erasing all evidence of their private thoughts from their features. Larra wondered how long it had taken them, and what horrors they had endured to perfect it.

The Queen rose from the chaise in an elegant move Larra would never be able to mimic. One moment she was reclined, the next she was sweeping toward Rhaegar with her arms outstretched, a beauteous smile lighting up her entire face.

"_Rhaegar_…!" she sighed warmly. Rhaegar embraced his mother, tucking her slim body into his in an embrace that, to Larra, looked incredibly protective - as if he was offering her his physical strength, literally exposing his back to cover her body with his protection. He inhaled deeply of the perfume in her hair, a wonderful scent of jasmine, pear, honeysuckle and decadent Qartheen camellia that whispered around Larra's nose and flirted sweetly, never overpowering but opulent. Understated, elegant and beautiful, like the Queen herself.

Larra inhaled the perfume deeply, tantalised by the scent. Perhaps a hint of Rhaegar's memory lingered; to Larra, it smelled of _home_, of warmth and deep love, contentment - that was what Rhaegar experienced whenever he smelled his mother's perfume…

"Was that Viserys I saw?" Rhaegar asked, as he released his mother.

"He has been summoned to the Throne Room," Queen Rhaella said placidly, and Rhaegar gave her a sharp look. It may have been months since Harrenhall; there were stern lines in Rhaegar's face that hadn't been there when he was relaxed beside Elia, singing to his court. Something significant - or maybe several significant things - had happened since Harrenhall, something that kept Rhaegar at court, rather than his home on Dragonstone with Princess Elia and their children.

"You won't join him at court?" he asked gently. Queen Rhaella and her husband the King had lived separate lives within the Red Keep, it was well-known.

"Let us have tea together," Queen Rhaella said, smiling beautifully, and she rang a tiny silver bell that set the songbirds into a chorus. She watched them thoughtfully, approaching a little inlaid table, and lifted the lid of an enamel box; she dipped manicured fingertips into the box, taking a generous pinch of birdseed, and scattered it into the cage. The jewel-bright birds chirped and sang and put on a display for her. Rhaella watched the birds, and Rhaegar watched her; he seemed to sigh to himself, shaking his head, and turned to carry a carved chair toward his mother's chaise. She cast him a disapproving look, gazing pointedly at one of the comfortable, upholstered seats.

"I'm covered in sweat and dust, Mother."

"I wonder you did not bathe before you presented yourself to your Mama."

"I wanted to see you," Rhaegar said simply, as a lady-in-waiting appeared bearing a silver tea-tray, laden with elegant tulip-shaped tea-glasses and an etched silver pot steaming subtly over a tiny flame. Clustered around the teapot and glasses were tiny silver dishes of roasted almonds tossed in oil and salt, small sweet figs, tiny oranges, sticky, stuffed dates the size of Larra's little-finger, tiny thousand-layer pastries oozing with honey and crushed pistachios, and the sweets Larra had seen only once, brought to Winterfell by the royal court during King Robert's visit, _morsels of ecstasy_. A delicacy of Old Valyria, brought to Westeros by the Targaryens centuries before the Conquest. Exquisite pink pillows of rosewater and orange-blossom water flavoured gel encased crushed pistachios and chopped dates, each dusted in confectioner's sugar.

Sansa had graciously allowed Larra to share one of the sweets Princess Myrcella had gifted her in a dainty silver box. Larra had never been bothered by sweets, her tastes leaning heavily toward savoury dishes…but those _morsels_…

Larra's mouth watered even now for the unusual flavours, sumptuous, foreign and decadent and deceptively simple: The aromatic rosewater, the delicate tang of lemon-juice, the perfect sweetness and the savoury nuts, the rich colouring from the pomegranate juice, the unusual chewiness, they all reminded Larra of that quiet afternoon in Sansa's chamber as summer snows had drifted around Winterfell, and they sat on the heavy, embroidered eiderdown on Sansa's bed, a tiny silver box between them, sharing the contraband sweeties Sansa had hidden from her mother.

She had shared the secret _with Larra_. It was the one true kindness Larra remembered from Sansa in years, and perhaps it was that rare moment with Sansa, more than the _morsels_ themselves, that made them so wonderful in her memory. She remembered Sansa prattling on about Princess Myrcella telling her that the ladies at court all ate _morsels_ _of ecstasy_ with bitter tea in the afternoons, to tide them over until their evening meal, playing a lazy game of cyvasse, or listening to the high harp, or sewing and gossiping. In her chambers at Winterfell, the Queen had invited Sansa to join her and Myrcella for bitter tea and decadent _morsels_: They heard of nothing else until Bran's fall, the first true _hurt_ their family had experienced since Lyanna's abduction all those years ago.

Larra had always wondered why Cersei, who had seemed to take no genuine delight in food or in company, would sit to tea offering _morsels of ecstasy_. Now she understood: Cersei, who had spent time at court when she was a girl while her father served as Hand to Aerys II Targaryen, had seen Queen Rhaella luxuriate in the tradition. Cersei associated tea and _morsels of ecstasy_ with the role of Queen: So she continued the custom, though she had not cultivated the tradition or had any personal connection to the treats handed out. It was different for Queen Rhaella: the _morsels_ were her inheritance, the last few scraps of her family's culture that had survived the Doom, one of the few ways she could retain Valyrian traditions in a strange land. Larra wondered how much of Valyrian culture the Targaryens had taught each other and carried on throughout the generations with quaint customs like this, and how many of them had inadvertently leaked throughout Westeros due to their influence the last few centuries.

It was a strange thing for her to focus on, when Rhaegar Targaryen stood not three feet from her, very much alive… But she did. She couldn't help it. Were Brandon to show her their father again - the father she remembered, not the boy he had once been - she would have been a wreck, sobbing in a heap on the floor, most likely - but it was like Cersei with the _morsels of ecstasy_: Larra had no personal connection to Rhaegar. He was a man, like any other - a brilliant, foolish man, it turned out - but not her _father_. He may have wedded and bedded Lyanna Stark to help create her and Jon, but the man who was her _father_ had raised her, ensured her education, protected her, had lost his head in this very city…

She could not deny that it was not exhilarating to look at Rhaegar Targaryen, the man who had fathered them, now that she knew the truth about her mother - and even Rhaella, her grandmother through Rhaegar. Larra had inherited her grandmother's lips and curls, through him, and Jon his nose; Rhaegar had given Larra her eyes, and her height, she was sure, and they had both inherited his hands - Jon's, absolutely, huge palms, long, slender fingers, and Larra's, slightly smaller, more elegant, with fingers just as long and slender. They even had the same shape nails, and looking even more closely at him, Larra was certain she had inherited the same pattern of tiny beauty-spots on her chest as Rhaegar had on his, and those dusted on his brawny forearms, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

Larra looked at Rhaegar, and realised they even had the same shape teeth - good and strong, white and straight. They had his smile - rare, and more startlingly beautiful because of it.

People had always said their mother had left little of herself in Jon and Larra: That they favoured their father, Ned, in looks. The truth of it was, they took after Lyanna in her colouring: But they _did_ share some resemblance to Rhaegar Targaryen, in the details. Larra had always paid close attention to the details: in her lessons, in her _cyvasse_ campaign strategies, in her painting; and in people's requests, their complaints.

Mother and son sat to tea, the Queen passing the honour of pouring the tea over to her son - the women prepared, the men poured. That was the custom in Old Valyria: And men served guests first, always, ladies and children first - ensuring they were provided for.

That was a quaint custom Larra felt more of Westeros should have long ago adopted.

Rhaegar tried, and Larra could see his frustration - remembered Jon, in the moments she watched Rhaegar trying to coax his mother into speaking of politics, of the fraught nature of court, of…of her husband the King whose paranoia was becoming legendary, only outmatched by his brutality.

"Word is spreading through the city," Rhaegar murmured, watching his mother carefully, and Larra could see Rhaegar tasting his words before he used them. "They know Father is excited by fire."

Queen Rhaella could not hide her flinch: If it had been anyone else, Larra thought she might have been able to - though no-one else would have dared bring up the topic. She could not hide from her firstborn, though, her adult son, who was the same age as Larra now was, she realised, as they spoke, though he seemed older than his years due to his size, and his melancholy nature…she wondered what horrors he had witnessed in these painted halls. Yes, people knew Aerys had become sexually excited by the executions-by-fire he commanded in the latter part of his reign… It was still whispered - out of respect for Rhaella - that he had been sexually violent to the Queen after he fed men to the fire.

Daenerys Targaryen, they said, had been conceived by force after Aerys fed his Hand, Qarlton Chelsted, to the flames: during the Rebellion: Aerys had viciously raped Queen Rhaella, resulting in her last pregnancy.

Larra thought of Daenerys Targaryen in the temple of the _dosh khaleen_, and wondered if she had fucked her paramour that night - Larra had seen him, earthy and handsome, cocky and relatively speaking, good-natured, standing beside an older man wearing the bear sigil of House Mormont, and a white-haired man even Larra knew as Ser Barristan the Bold.

She wondered if Daenerys Targaryen felt a thrill every time she executed a man.

Larra wondered if Daenerys would be as ready to burn men alive if she knew she would never have been born had her father not lusted for death by fire - had he not brutalised her mother every time he sentenced a man to die…

Rhaella stood to scatter a pinch of birdseed to her songbirds in their gilded cage, her face wiped of all emotion. But her fingers trembled, and Rhaegar noticed. He stood, and Larra observed how careful he was, in how he approached his mother, how he made himself seem smaller, less threatening, did not crowd her, approached her as if she was a wounded, skittish animal that might die of fright rather than bite to protect itself.

Rhaegar reached out, and tenderly moved aside the collar of his mother's modest, beautiful gown to reveal her neck, bruised and scratched… Inches below her collar-bone, a fuchsia-purple bruise flourished angrily, another bite-mark glared furiously red and ragged against her pale skin, the swell of her white breast above her stays and tissue-thin silk smallclothes. The dangerous glint in Rhaegar's eyes seemed to catch alight, even as the light flickered and died in Rhaella's eyes, absence of any emotion replacing the warmth of her smile, the gentle strength of her love.

It struck Larra how large Rhaegar was: He was a good two heads taller than his slender mother - she was taller than her daughter, Larra knew, closer to Larra's own height - and even in his dark, sleekly-tailored sparring clothing, deceptively slender, Rhaegar was well-built. Beside him, the Queen, who had not struck Larra at all as being frail, or as anything but regal and composed, looked particularly delicate, and _young_… She tried to remember her lessons, thought Queen Rhaella had not yet seen her fortieth birthday when she died on Dragonstone… She had been married after her very first blood, it was commonly known, with Rhaegar born during the Tragedy of Summerhall soon after, born as his family died in flames and agony as Aegon the Unlikely strove to bring dragons into the world again and bring the Westerosi lords to heel… Larra was reminded _again_ of the temple of the _dosh khaleen_…

The Queen seemed to ignore the look on Rhaegar's face; she did not shy away from his hand, but she did not acknowledge it either. "How long have you known?"

"Long enough I am ashamed not to have acted before," Rhaegar said quietly, and something flickered in his mother's eyes. He righted the neckline of her gown, and Larra saw him clench his hands into fists as he lowered them.

"The court is like a cache of wildfire," Queen Rhaella said, her voice gentle but unyielding. Larra had heard people describe Rhaegar as having 'iron tones' in his voice - she imagined this woman was where Rhaegar got his strength from, not his broken-minded father. "One careless spark and we shall face another Dance of Dragons. Darling boy, the Seven Kingdoms cannot be drawn into our family's tragedies."

"We cannot prevent a civil war, Mother. Soon Father will execute the wrong man," Rhaegar warned quietly. "All we can do is minimise the damage."

"We need _Tywin_," Rhaella said, almost a moan, as she wrung her elegant hands. "I am surprised he does not return to King's Landing to take young Ser Jaime's place as your father's intended hostage to ensure Lannister loyalty."

"Ser Jaime is not his father, and Tywin knows it," Rhaegar said quietly. "And Lord Tywin knows Father would as soon burn him alive as invite him to be his Hand again. What news from the Rock?"

"I receive no word of answer to the ravens I have despatched," Rhaella said anxiously.

"You are assuming Varys has not diverted them to a brazier."

"I take them to the ravenry myself," Queen Rhaella said gently, a flicker of apprehension crossing her face. "Whatever happens, we cannot rely on Tywin's loyalty. Not with Ser Jaime as your father's hostage, and such bad blood between them."

"And with sixty-thousand men at his command if he chooses to raise his banners…?" Rhaegar murmured, catching his mother's eye. He shook his head. "It will not be Tywin who ignites the wildfire, Mother. He's far too prudent for that. He'll wait, and watch…he'll do what he must to ensure the boy's safety, but no more… Father has turned a stalwart ally and fierce friend into a man utterly indifferent to his fate." His eyes lingered on his mother's bruises. "All those who once loved and admired him see him for what he has always been."

"He hasn't always…"

"Been cruel? You best of all know that he has," Rhaegar said gently. Rhaella turned her lilac eyes on her son, frowning subtly. "You cannot hide it from me as you do Viserys… Yet the more I see, the more you seem to blind yourself to… Now all of Westeros shall know just how broken Father's mind is."

A faint tinge of colour touched Rhaella's cheeks, but she stood tall, her shoulders back, chin level to the floor. Unchallenging, but not cowering either. Confident, but not arrogant. Larra was enthralled by her use of her body to communicate without words. "Should I bar my door and send him to a brothel? Bring whores to his bed for him to mutilate when they displease him? How many shall die so I may sleep painlessly?"

A muscle ticked in Rhaegar's jaw - the same muscle that ticked in Jon's whenever he was furious, and trying hard not to give in to his frustrations. "It pleases him to _hurt_ you."

"I know what people think - I hear what they say… Lord Varys is very good about keeping me informed, just as he does your father, though he feeds us different morsels… People do not realise I have my own influence over the King," Rhaella said softly, and that tick reappeared in Rhaegar's jaw. "It is I who can gentle the worst of his obsessive distrust, after he has taken such pains throughout our marriage to ensure I alone can be trusted… But I would endure him every night, my darling boy, if it meant keeping you safe. And Elia, and Rhaenys, and Aegon, and Viserys."

"It should be _me_ protecting _you_," Rhaegar said firmly.

"No, my love…do not deny me a mother's single purpose…to protect her children. How many generations lingered on Dragonstone before Aegon turned his eyes westward? I will wait…and I will witness a great ruler create an empire the world has never seen before," Rhaella murmured, resting her palm against Rhaegar's cheek, her lilac eyes over-brimming with pride and love.

Larra's heart broke. She had lived her entire life wanting someone to look at her that way. Her heart broke, because this kind, dutiful and resilient lady had died, knowing all but two of her family-members had been butchered as sadistically as any of her husband's victims had been. A boy with missing milk-teeth had been crowned King at Dragonstone; all Rhaella had to give her daughter was a trailing name she had carried with her to the Dothraki Sea and beyond…

A lady-in-waiting appeared; the Queen cast her a measuring look.

"A meeting of your charities? Or are we to have another ball?" Rhaegar asked gloomily. Queen Rhaella's lips twitched toward a smile, her eyes glinting, but they didn't quite make it; a shadow flickered across her eyes, and her smile died.

"Keep the court fed and entertained and they will endure any mistreatment," she said softly.

"Slowly the unthinkable becomes tolerable," Rhaegar murmured darkly. "And then acceptable. Then celebrated… Until it is not. Father's madness will not long be tolerated, Mother."

"Rhaegar," Queen Rhaella warned. "These walls have eyes and ears."

"The Spider can tell Father what he likes; the Gods know he already does, to suit his own purposes," Rhaegar said, with a touch of impatience rather than disdain.

"Better to keep everyone sweet, my love," Rhaella warned in an undertone, echoing what Elia had said at Harrenhall. She turned to leave with her lady-in-waiting.

"Would you forgive me, Mother?" Rhaegar asked, and Rhaella paused at the steps. She glanced over her shoulder, that look on her face again, breaking Larra's heart.

"My first, dearest love… A mother can forgive her child anything."

That was Rhaegar's permission; and his pardon.

It dictated the destruction of a dynasty, though that was not the intent of Rhaegar or his mother.

The Queen left, her lady-in-waiting trailing behind her, and Rhaegar let out a pent-up breath, his eyes closed. When he opened them, he unfurled his fingers, and Larra felt suddenly light-headed, noticing the tiny bloody crescents standing out angrily on his calloused palms.

Her own palms seemed to burn, and she glanced down at them, her lips parting. She bore the same scars as her father; had the exact same habit to internalise her rage and prevent herself hurting anyone, or making anyone think less of her for her reaction.

A shadow appeared in the doorway, an unassumingly handsome man with cropped dark hair and violet eyes, clean-shaven, with solemn high cheekbones and a sense of gravitas that made him feel almost Northern to Larra. She knew he wasn't. Her lips parted, a surge of unexpected delight almost making her smile.

She was uncertain how she felt about seeing Rhaegar Targaryen in the flesh, after what she had learned - perhaps especially because of that. As a girl she had been hyper-critical of Rhaegar's conduct and apparent contradictions in character when he abducted Lyanna - to know he had acted honourably to Lyanna after all, yet had torn Westeros asunder in the act of marrying her…she had thought him selfish in her youth; now, the same age he had been when he and Lyanna eloped, Lyanna thought him foolish. She was uncertain of Rhaegar, and probably always would be; he was an enigma that belonged to the past.

But Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning?

She had always been half in love with him.

Father spoke so rarely but so highly of him… She now knew why: Ser Arthur had died defending Lyanna - defending _her_, and Jon, the last of Rhaegar's legacy. It wasn't just that Ser Arthur was the best swordsman Ned had ever seen: Father had considered him a noble, honourable man. Rhaegar had taken control of royalist forces fighting in the North, and had left his best, fiercest friend, a legendary swordsman, to defend Lyanna.

Ser Arthur sighed heavily, his eyes on Rhaegar's hands. He approached, took one of Rhaegar's hands in his to examine his palms.

"That's no good. You won't be able to hold your sword if you continue to maim yourself," he said, in his smoky, rich voice.

"Did you hear that?" Rhaegar asked glumly, and Ser Arthur nodded.

"I did," he said simply. "I am with you, always." Rhaegar lifted his head, his own indigo eyes seeking Ser Arthur's violet ones.

"Thank you, brother," Rhaegar said softly. Ser Arthur nodded, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and the memory melted away as they departed the Queen's painted chamber…

* * *

Brandon showed her a great many memories after that. The Queen's flight from King's Landing on a crisp morning, the sky cold and blue above, the sea gentle, the city holding its breath as it prepared for siege. A heavily pregnant Rhaella, receiving a raven-scroll from Dorne, signed by Lord Dayne of Starfall Hall, announcing the death of Lyanna Stark, and the Sword of the Morning who had defended her - it was Rhaella's grief that cemented Larra's belief that Rhaegar's mother had known all along what Rhaegar had been up to, that she had known Rhaegar had dissolved his marriage to Elia in favour of marrying Lyanna and gaining Northern support for a coup to impose a regency on his father's reign… Rhaella, thin and anxious, had sobbed, her belly bulging as she collapsed beside the Painted Table, small wooden dragons clutched in her hands, Viserys, now seemingly a lot older due to the frown of apprehension on his little face, watching from the hearth, roaring with flame as a storm raged around the castle.

Brandon showed her Rhaella nursing her only surviving daughter; and the gentle, strong queen with hands clasped at her breast, in full regalia, dressed all in gold, in the Sept, summer sunlight shattered through crystals that picked up every hue of gold and silver in her hair and gave colour to the death-paled lips small Viserys kissed as a septa waited patiently for him to say goodbye to his Mama.

They watched two small golden-silver haired children in a modest manse in Braavos, with a great bear of a man roaring orders at servants, who stole all of his money and turned out his charges when he died. A tiny meek girl traipsed, weeping, from the house with the red door and her quaint bedchamber with a lemon tree outside the window.

Larra traversed the Free Cities with the last Targaryens, the Beggar King who grew angrier, more desperate, more hopeless, with every door shut on him, every promise proved false…protecting the innocence of his sister against servants and sly hosts, even as he bullied her in his frustration and anger at their circumstances, the one person in the world who was beneath him.

The meek girl turned into a pretty young woman, a pale and delicate wraith who trailed uncertainly beside him, treading on eggshells as she glanced out of the corner of her eyes to gauge her brother's mood, always heeding the threat - _you don't want to wake the dragon, do you_? - the same warning his mother had given Viserys so many years ago: Viserys never realised Rhaella had been warning him against his father's madness, the insanity Viserys resolutely denied all his life. Rhaegar had been a clever man who saw everything; Viserys had been a child whose family was gone before he could realise the truth for himself. He had passed his ignorance and his anger to Daenerys Stormborn, who turned her gaze away and stopped listening every time her Westerosi advisers warned her against echoing her father's choices, giving in to her first, worst instincts.

Larra journeyed from the tranquil gardens of Pentos to the endless Dothraki Sea, and found herself thirsty for Daenerys Targaryen's horse-lord husband, considerate to his fragile bride as he coaxed and petted and adored her their wedding-night, and mounted her beneath the stars when she whispered a breathless, _Yes_!

She saw the complexities and paradoxes of Daenerys Stormborn, a meek girl who survived the brutality of the Dothraki, growing in confidence, adopting their harsh culture as her own, embracing their brutality - and simultaneously repulsed and horrified by it.

Larra witnessed the birth of dragons, heard newborn dragons croon and sing in the sunrise as a great pyre hissed and cracked and belched black smoke, and the Mother of Dragons was born.

They journeyed to Qarth, and Larra wished she could explore it: She grew more concerned as Daenerys Stormborn threatened to reduce Qarth to ash if her weak _khalasaar_ was turned away - and did turn Astapor to ash, after reneging on her word to the Wise Masters. She sacked the city, and marched at the head of an army of Unsullied… Through trickery she claimed Yunkai, and her handsome lover Daario Naharis, wise through experience and the only one who did not dread Daenerys' wrath to speak honestly to her.

She conquered Meereen. Gave proper burials to the child-slaves crucified as mile-markers to the greatest city in Slavers' Bay - and then crucified hundreds of noblemen, even those who had nearly bankrupted their ancient families outbidding other, notoriously brutal nobles, to protect slaves they considered it their duty to protect, and provide for, within a corrupted institution only time and education could eradicate.

Larra smiled fondly, watching a drunken dwarf invigorate a broken economy, bringing peace to a city at war with itself, all while enjoying his sceptical Volantene whore, and trading barbs with the eunuch Varys, who watched the Dragon Queen shrewdly, and patiently, and disappointedly, as Daenerys continued to undermine her own rhetoric of _breaking the wheel_… At the first opportunity to nurture true, lasting change in Meereen, with support and peace and men who knew how to rule to guide her, Daenerys had ordered her _khalasaar_ to board ships, Unsullied to leave their posts, and sail for Westeros - leaving a sell-sword company as her proxies in the Great Pyramid of Meereen, her lover with them.

Larra watched everything as it had occurred, attempting to do so without bias, but she was disappointed. Truthfully, she was distrustful, and wary of the Dragon Queen.

Daenerys Targaryen's actions did not match her words.

Her actions spoke more than words.

The last memory was the most recent, Larra knew.

In a gloomy, high-ceilinged chamber, shards of brittle light glinted off eerie black rock shaped by spells and dragonfire, tall braziers burning as a diminutive court held its breath. At the far end of the chamber, a small woman with long silvery-gold hair sat straight-backed and arrogant on her ancestors' first throne. This was Dragonstone, and a motley assortment of followers had gathered in the firelight to show their support of her.

Gone was the meek girl in finest Qartheen lace; gone the courageous young-woman in horse-hair vests and painted-silk trousers; gone the woman armoured in exquisite gowns, untouchable and out-of-touch; hints of the woman who had smiled as she burned the _khals_ and luxuriated in the thrill of wielding her dragons as a weapon against the armada sent by Yunkai and Astapor showed in the hard set to Daenerys Targaryen's face as she waited for someone, her chin raised arrogantly - somewhere between Qarth and the Astapor, Daenerys Targaryen had lost the warmth and courage and fierce earnestness that had defined her as a _khaleesi_ \- perhaps it had happened in Qarth, sentencing a maidservant to die slowly and in agony, for loyalty - Brandon had shown Larra that the maidservant Daenerys Targaryen had locked in a great vault to starve to death had been found in Daenerys' enemy's bed, where Daenerys had sent her, and where she had been kept, prevented from hearing news of her mistress until the Mother of Dragons had locked her away. The Summer Islander had broken the girl's neck in the dark, rather than let her suffer.

Daenerys had killed those loyal to her without blinking, without reflection on her own part in what had happened: She had betrayed her word to the Masters of Astapor: And abandoned Meereen to its fate only after failing at establishing the new world she had vowed she was determined to create.

There was a coldness to Daenerys now, a brittle sense of power that Larra disliked immediately. As Daenerys Stormborn had left Essos, the warmth of Essos had left her.

It struck her that Daenerys was fully-clothed for the very first time. She had adopted the black colour-palette of her Targaryen sigil: And her clothes, though still incredibly fine, were of sturdy, thicker materials more suited to winter. The sharp shoulders of her short, pleated jacket recalled her brother Viserys' embroidered overcoats. And the Breaker of Chains wore a silvered chain of dragon vertebrae from one shoulder to her hip, with a three-headed dragon clasp. Her long hair glinted in the firelight as she waited, unmoving.

Around her were clustered people Larra had never met, but knew where they came from simply by their dress.

A sultry Dornishwoman draped artfully in layers of shimmering fabrics that still managed to hint at the lithe, shapely body beneath, her tanned midriff almost bare, her painted silk trousers and overskirts billowing, embroidery glittering in the firelight as she moved, a sash of vibrant silk protecting her from a wide belt heavily adorned with gold discs embedded with jewels. Her voluptuous breasts were highlighted by a bright, cropped jacket over a translucent silk split tunic that gave teasing glimpses of dark little nipples, flirting with her many pearl necklaces dripping sensuously to her navel, two veils - one heavy, embroidered and beaded brocade, held in place by a heavy chain-and-pearl headdress, the other shimmering, light as air, barely disguising her face and the eyes glinting beneath, smoked with kohl. She held hands with two young girls, similarly though more modestly dressed, in richly embroidered, beaded fabrics draped airily and irresistibly, the elder dressed in black velvet with a Martell-ochre silk veil draped artfully around her, clasped with a sunspear brooch at her breast, the younger dressed much like her mother in warmer, sultry colours, subtly shaking her wrist around which a bracelet of tiny silver bells was clasped.

As the mother spoke to her girls in undertones, she was watched by shrewd pale eyes set into the wizened face of an old woman. She was plump in her old age, but was on her feet, and richly-dressed in a black brocade jacket, intricate thorny, vine-like belt and billowing skirts - she looked attractive and very dignified, wearing a wimple and a crespine adorned with a subtle golden rose motif in metal and a diaphanous pleated veil. The black of her outfit mirrored the mourning-wear of the Dornishwoman, echoing the wintry tones of Daenerys Targaryen's new wardrobe, and the shell-like black leather armour of her Unsullied soldiers lining the walls.

The only breath of fresh air, of gentleness and softness, delicacy, and colour, came from the veritable bouquet of beauties clustered around the Tyrell matriarch, young girls all under the age of thirteen, Larra would guess, except for the eldest, who stood beside the inimitable Queen of Thrones, with her shoulders back and her chin level to the inlaid floor, deceptively unassuming and exquisitely pretty. The young girls all wore versions of the same gown, cut cleanly and simply, with floaty skirts of organza over silk, a short jacket with a low, wrapped neckline meeting at a point, worn over a gauzy organza underdress knotted at the base of the throat with silk ribbon, almost imitating Lady Olenna's wimple, softer and more delicate, prettier. The tracery on their short jackets and some of their shawls was of closed, tight rosebuds - not decadent open roses like Lady Olenna's gold tracery on her black jacket. And, unlike Lady Olenna's black clothing, the young girls were dressed in soft pale-blue and shimmering icy-greens that had soft dove-grey undertones, still subdued but fresh, clean and crisp like an unexpected frost on the moors.

The eldest girl, the most exquisite of them, with her gentle green eyes and soft golden-brown hair waving to her waist, wore a more adult version of the younger girls' dresses, not quite Lady Olenna's jacket and skirts ensemble. Her shimmering gown had full skirts and simple lines, without the excess of organza, cleaner and crisp, the low, pointed neckline and the sharp cuffs of the long sleeves trimmed with velvet and glinting with embroidered vines and tight rosebuds. She showed off her elegant hands, her slender throat, hinted at her pretty breasts with delicate folds of iridescent organza tucked at her neckline, folded almost to resemble the unfurling petals of a rose. A heavy, embroidered shawl covered in almost erotic roses was draped around her for more warmth, and Larra knew the chill was not so much from the weather as the atmosphere in the hall: Superbly uninviting.

It was a small court, jumbled and hastily-assembled, not quite certain of itself. The only ones confident in their place were the Unsullied, and the Dothraki blood-riders who wielded wicked _arakhs_ and whips, moving around the hall, restless, their long braids shining - and catching the young Tyrell girl's interest, watching them curiously, the subtle chime of silver bells in their long braids adding to the music of the youngest Dornish girl as she huffed impatiently and shot a nasty look at Daenerys Targaryen, who sat unmoving, expectant, cold as ice.

Larra knew the Queen of Thorns by reputation alone: She assumed the Dornishwoman had some personal connection to House Martell.

And there…she recognised him instantly, though he looked older, his hair had grown out, and there was a solemnity to his face that had never been there before. She remembered him smirking and irreverent, irritating beyond belief, but fierce and loyal to Robb… Theon Greyjoy.

They were all waiting for someone.

And Daenerys Targaryen was impatient.

* * *

**A.N.**: Sorry this one was so long! I got carried away, and the chapter sort of just ran away from me!

**FACE-CLAIMS**: There are a few for this chapter, actually for this story!

Queen Rhaella: Lea Seydoux (when she was in _La Belle et la Bête_)

Rhaegar: Combo of Tom Hiddleston and Chris Hemsworth

Elia Martell: Gal Gadot

Alynore Tyrell: Kristine Froseth

Gendry: Henry Cavill, mmmmm…..

I love the costume designer's theory on _GoT_ that current Lannister fashions were heavily influenced over the last two generations by Targaryen court dress. The asymmetric cuts and elaborate folds and metal detailing are distinctively _other_ in comparison to the other styles worn in Westeros. I like the theory that the Lannisters, through proximity to the court, with Tywin as the Hand of the King to Aerys for decades, had adopted some of the foreign, Old Valyria, Targaryan styles worn at court; and Cersei, expecting to marry Prince Rhaegar, would have adopted the style of dress she saw worn at court, especially by Queen Rhaella, similarly to how Sansa dressed to please Joffrey and Cersei in the beginning. Cersei was already imagining herself part of the royal family, and would certainly have dressed as if she belonged by Rhaegar's side - and her family could afford it. Viserys wears a style he remembers from his childhood at court, which shows the same asymmetric cuts and folded, rich fabrics. After the end of the Targaryen dynasty, the Lannisters became the true power in Westeros and their dress was a nod to them usurping Targaryen power, usurping the fashion trends the Targaryens had set and making them their own - especially Cersei. Look at a picture of Viserys, compare it to young-Cersei's dress, and there are a lot of similarities in the cut, draping and tie details.


	13. Never Forget What You Are

**A.N.**: Hi everyone, I hope you're all well and avoiding the worst of the winter bugs! I'm back at school, and obsessing over _A Court of Thorns and Roses_ (which I am currently planning a fanfic for - I can't stand Feyre, so you know what that means!) but it is the season of giving, so - a new chapter for you!

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_13_

_Never Forget What You Are_

* * *

He was glad to be off that _fucking_ ship.

On solid footing at last, the crashing waves at his back, Jon could almost have dropped to his knees and kissed the worn stones of the tiny, paved quay.

"Don't know how you've lived most of your life on the water, Ser Davos," Jon moaned, grimacing, and the older man chuckled good-naturedly, climbing up onto the jetty beside him. A handful of their men had rowed them to shore, the first Stark ship built in centuries moored in a choice area Davos trusted to shelter their ship from the worst of the elements. Davos was surprised where the Targaryen girl had anchored her armada: One foul storm and she would lose half her ships.

Jon wondered why no-one had warned her.

It struck Jon again, as it had when they first anchored, that the tiny town flirting hesitantly with the unpredictable coast should have been more active. Winter had come: Ser Davos had told Jon that the island of Dragonstone relied on the winter shoals migrating past to warmer waters to feed themselves. There were fewer than a handful of boats in the docks, including Jon's little dinghy, and only one of them, Davos said, was a vessel built for the open seas, able to withstand the additional weight of net-fishing the shoals. The other boats were simple little dinghies intended to navigate around the island to the other hamlets when the water levels rose and drenched the paved walkways between Dragonstone castle and the port and villages.

"You get used to it," Ser Davos said cheerfully. "Makes you truly appreciate the times you have solid earth beneath your boots. There are those more poetic than myself who wax lyrical about ships as the embodiment of _freedom_."

"Tell that to the slaves transported across the world by them," Jon grumbled; he was in a foul mood, and had been ever since they had set sail from White Harbour. He'd sent Sam and Gilly and Little Sam south by ship and would never be able to apologise enough. A horse or his own two feet were all Jon needed.

"You're in a pretty temper," Ser Davos teased, his eyes glinting.

"Everything's…still _swaying_," Jon moaned, closing his eyes as his vision span, and he ignored Ser Davos' chuckle as he inhaled slowly, the disorientation subsiding. It wasn't nausea he suffered from. He opened his eyes, frowning around the small port. "Where are all the fishing boats? Surely Stannis didn't leave the island unable to provide for itself through the winter?"

"No, Stannis was prudent; and there's been no-one here since the Targaryen girl arrived," Ser Davos said, frowning in the weak sunlight. It was still brighter and hotter than anything Jon remembered - except that one, rare sunrise as he mounted the Wall after a long, terrifying climb. "There should be a small fleet bringing in the fish to preserve for the winter. The first true winter storm and the shoals will be gone."

"So where are the ships?"

"Likely, they've been commandeered," Ser Davos said darkly. "This Targaryen queen won't want anyone smuggling news to the mainland about her invasion."

"So the islanders must starve?" Jon frowned. Ser Davos did not answer: He was looking up the hill. Dragonstone, the island, was volcanic: Its earth was rich and arable due to the volcanic soil, Winterfell's library had told Jon, when he'd cared to investigate with Maester Wolkan's help. Ser Davos had told Jon that the crops grown on Dragonstone were plentiful - but the fighting men, who would plough and work the fields, had rallied under Stannis's banners and died for him, either at the Battle of the Blackwater, or outside the gates of Winterfell during Stannis's failed charge against the Boltons. How were the people of Dragonstone supposed to survive the winter while Daenerys Targaryen played out her invasion? "A poor precedent she's setting."

"Jon," Ser Davos murmured warningly, and Jon followed his gaze. A small party was approaching, led by two pretty girls, one with rich amber-coloured skin, wide eyes heavily lashed and dark reddish hair, the other pale-skinned with high cheekbones, slanting dark eyes and a rosebud mouth, and long, silky black hair. They had been chosen for their beauty, Jon knew: They were both young maids on the cusp of womanhood, and several of the men surrounding them eyed them hungrily, as they carried banners emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Both wore their hair in elaborate braids, dressed similarly to a tall, dark-skinned woman taking care not to stride ahead of a familiar, stunted figure.

Tyrion Lannister.

It was the last note in the Imp's letter that had had Jon believing its authenticity, as was Lord Tyrion's intention. And here he was, dressed richly, his hair longer, darker, curling wildly, his face almost cloven in two by a deep scar, but smiling irreverently all the same, just as Jon remembered him - a curious mixture of rare human decency and arrogance.

"The bastard of Winterfell," he said mockingly, and Jon gazed fondly at him, knowing he was mocking those who condemned Jon for his birth. _Never forget what you are. Other people will not. Wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt you_… In Jon's memory, Lord Tyrion had not been nearly as short as he seemed, standing before him for the first time in nearly seven years.

"The dwarf of Casterly Rock," he responded grimly, and felt his face unfreezing as he smiled; the Imp grinned, and they reached out to clasp hands.

"I believe we last saw each other at the top of the Wall," Lord Tyrion said, and Jon nodded. That had been a very long time ago. Before Uncle Benjen had ventured beyond the Wall on his last, ill-fated Ranging. Before the Night King, before Mance…before Ygritte…

"You were pissing off the edge, if I remember right," Jon said, and Lord Tyrion grinned. It made the scar slashed across his face more pronounced. "You've picked up some scars along the road."

"Well, it wasn't all feather beds and fine port by the fireside with ancient scrolls to peruse, I assure you," Lord Tyrion said grimly. "But, we're both still here."

"In spite of people's best efforts to make it otherwise," Jon said, remembering what Sansa had told him of Lord Tyrion. "It's good to see you again, my lord. Sansa will be pleased to know you're safe and whole; she told me of your kindness toward her." Lord Tyrion didn't hide his surprise. "Ser Davos, this is Lord Tyrion Lannister. Lord Tyrion, my adviser, Ser Davos Seaworth."

"Ah, the Onion Knight," Lord Tyrion nodded, reaching to clasp Ser Davos' hand. "We fought on opposite sides at the Battle of Blackwater Bay."

"Unluckily for me," Ser Davos said quietly and simply. He never spoke of his losses, though Jon knew his son had been killed fighting for Stannis. Jon's gaze flickered to the dark-skinned woman waiting with her hands clasped, watching. There was a beguiling smile on her face, her dark eyes twinkling. She had froths of tight curls shaping her pretty face, and stood slim and tall.

"My lady…" He gave her a respectful half-bow.

"Ah… Missandei is the Queen's most trusted advisor," Lord Tyrion said, introducing the young woman.

"Welcome to Dragonstone. Our Queen knows this is a long journey; she appreciates the efforts you have made on her behalf," Missandei said blithely. "If you wouldn't mind handing over your weapons."

He did mind. Lord Tyrion caught his eye, briefly. Jon sighed deeply, glancing away from the woman to the shore.

"Where are the fishing-boats?" he asked, flicking his eyes back to the woman.

"Pardon?" She blinked at him, bemused.

"The fishing-boats. Ser Davos has spent many years at Dragonstone, he tells me the villagers rely on shoals of fish migrating south, to sustain them through the winter," Jon said. They wanted his weapons; he would not give them. They intended to unnerve him, to make him impotent by disarming him. He had Sansa sitting on one shoulder, Larra's ghost heavy on the other, both murmuring advice in his ear. "There's not a single boat out on the water fishing."

"The ships have been incorporated into Queen Daenerys' armada, in preparations for her invasion," Missandei said coolly, a well-practiced smile never slipping from her face. "They were happy to contribute to Queen Daenerys' war efforts."

"I'm sure the threat of a few hundred thousand Dothraki has silenced a good many complaints in the past," Jon said darkly.

"We have been expecting you," said Missandei, and repeated, "If you wouldn't mind handing over your weapons."

"I do. I'm sure it's within the realms of your two-hundred thousand Dothraki to put me down if I pose a threat to your queen," Jon said, his gloved hand resting comfortably around the hilt of Long Claw. "I did not come all this way to provoke war with her."

Lord Tyrion did not insist.

He could not have expected that Jon would hand over his weapons, or leave his men defenceless. Missandei clearly had: The brutish men accompanying her, the beetle-like faceless soldiers flanking her did, but it was Lord Tyrion who broke the tension, brushed away the issue. He did not press that Jon give up his sword, or that his men remain unprotected. This was how things were done in Westeros.

And Northerners were notoriously stubborn. The Queen could walk her sorry arse down all those steps to treat with Jon at the quay if she felt so inclined; Jon only needed the source of the dragonglass mine, and Ser Davos would take care of the rest. He had come to meet Daenerys Stormborn as a courtesy.

He was not going to tell her that he had no other choice. To let her have the power to destroy all he held precious, just out of spite.

"Come, it is a long walk to the castle, believe me," Lord Tyrion said, grimacing. "You must tell me of your journey."

They were flanked by the scuttling soldiers and swaggering wildmen from the Dothraki Sea, but Lord Tyrion gestured to the biggest of the Dothraki and he muttered something in a guttural tongue to his men, and they turned and headed back through the tiny, empty seaside town, to a paved path accessible only due to the low tide, which led straight to a walled path that wound up the side of a mountain to Dragonstone castle. The walled, fortified path looked almost like fangs cut into the side of the mountain, jagged and sharp.

"That's a lot of steps," Jon said wearily, though he was glad of the walk: He had been cooped up too long on that ship. Jon glanced down at the Hand of the Queen. "How are your legs, my lord?"

"Better now than they will be at the top," Lord Tyrion grimaced, and he gave Jon a small, appreciative smile that Jon had remembered how awkward it sometimes was for Lord Tyrion. This world was not fashioned for cripples, bastards or broken things.

"Consider yourself lucky. At least there's steps," Jon sighed, gazing out at the jagged walkway.

"You've scaled worse?" Lord Tyrion asked, glancing up at Jon, who nodded grimly, his stomach hurting as a flash of red hair glinted in his mind's eye, the billowing gold-limned clouds parting to reveal a blazing sun over fresh green seas as far as the eye could see.

"Aye."

"The Wall?"

"Aye," Jon nodded, and their boots splashed subtly in the puddles along the paved walkway to the castle. As natural fortifications went, the Targaryens who had fortified Dragonstone as Old Valyria's most westerly outpost had known what they were doing: In high tide, the castle itself was accessible only from the air - the steep, jagged cliffs of the island were impossible to climb, and the sandy beaches were few and far between, protected by impassable bays and submerged rock-formations that had wrecked armadas, their corpses rotting eerily, and haunted by sharks and other monsters of the deep. Every point of the walled path up to the castle was easily defended: Jon recognised the work of genius that was Dragonstone. "Up and over, and all the way down again. Nothing but pick-axes, spikes on my boots - and a lot of rope."

"I hope that marvellous contraption did not break?" Lord Tyrion said, looking startled. Jon almost smiled: Then he remembered…and the smile died prematurely.

"I wasn't at Castle Black," Jon said ominously, and his grim tone was enough that Lord Tyrion, however curious, did not ask for details.

After a moment, Lord Tyrion said thoughtfully, "You _have_ had an interesting journey."

"My sister tells me you quelled the riots in King's Landing when the smallfolk were starving, provided for the people," Jon said, to change the subject. He never dwelled too long on Ygritte…a name that sounded far too much like _regret_. Better to think of other things. Of a living girl kissed by fire who was relying on him… "That was autumn, after the longest summer in living memory… White ravens have been sent from the Citadel."

"Winter is finally here," Lord Tyrion said, with a thoughtful, amused little laugh.

"As my father promised," Jon said heavily. He frowned at the Hand of the Queen. "It seems a simple blunder to actively prevent the smallfolk from being able to provide for themselves, my lord."

Tyrion gave Jon a meaningful look, murmuring, "It was not my decision to commandeer the vessels."

"Surely a Hand's role is to prevent a Queen from making unpopular decisions?" he asked, aware as he did so that _he_ had made an unpopular decision - but one that was necessary for the survival of his people.

"Did Ser Davos advise against you journeying south?" Lord Tyrion asked.

"Vehemently," Jon said, his lips quirking with irony.

"And yet here you are."

"Yet here I am," he sighed, his legs starting to burn; he slowed his pace to match Lord Tyrion's, and their honour-guard had to slow down.

Lord Tyrion narrowed his eyes at Jon. "Because whatever you're here for is more important than the risk to your life." Jon sighed heavily, and gazed ahead, at the featureless soldiers in beetle-like shell armour of pristine black leather, at Missandei in her neat overcoat and boots, and the two young girls who may never live to womanhood if he failed.

"Is your Queen's invasion worth more than the lives of the smallfolk of Dragonstone?" Jon asked quietly, glancing back at Lord Tyrion. "They were once her family's people to provide for and protect… How did a Lannister become Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen?"

"It's a long and bloody tale - and to be honest, I've been drunk for most of it," Lord Tyrion grinned, with a hint of his old impishness, but there was a solemnity in his eyes now that Jon did not remember. "I shall share it with you, of course, Your Grace - at some point, I should also like to hear how a bastard steward in the Night's Watch became King in the North."

"It's a long and bloody tale," Jon echoed, and Lord Tyrion smiled. Jon told him grimly, "My bannermen think I'm a fool for coming here."

"Of course they do," Lord Tyrion said lightly. "If I was your Hand, I would've advised against it."

"Everyone advised against it."

"And you ignored them," Lord Tyrion said, giving Jon a measuring look. "General rule of thumb: Stark men don't fare well when they travel south."

"True," Jon agreed. There was no arguing with the horrors his family had so recently endured. He thought of Sansa, sewn into her armoured gowns at Winterfell, swathed in heavy fabrics and all but telling the world to keep away…he worried about her for the thousandth time, alone at the castle with Littlefinger lurking and plotting and lusting… "But I'm not a Stark."

He had never heard such a sound as exploded through the sky - in the North there were few reptiles but even in his marrow, Jon heard the shrieking, reptilian birdlike scream that threatened to shatter his eardrums, heard the crackle and flapping of great armoured leathery wings like the rumble of nearing thunderstorms and _knew_, by the fire that sparked in his blood and the dread that turned his belly to jelly…_dragon_.

Jon had battled giants, had fought off wights and killed White Walkers.

He moved to block Lord Tyrion, hand on the hilt of his sword, that monstrous scream igniting every drop of rage boiling in his heart, frustration and anger and desperation, fire dancing along his veins, stubborn and terrified and courageous to a fault, and Jon's lips parted, and his anger dissolved, and he gazed in heartbroken awe and wonder and dread as a monster from legend soared and whorled and dived for him, monstrous and reptilian, onyx and blood-red like the banners carried before him. Enormous wings beat the air around him, making even the Unsullied stagger in the momentary gale, and Jon gasped, eyes on the enormous creature flapping its great wings as it soared through the air.

"Not the usual reaction," Lord Tyrion said, gaping at Jon, his cunning eyes narrowed. "For a moment there I thought you may slay the dragon to protect me."

"For a moment, so did I," Jon panted, staring at the _dragon_.

"You've impressive reactions, Jon Snow. I wonder if even Drogon may have thought better of provoking you, the look on your face. It would have made a comical song. The King in the North defending the Imp against Balerion reborn," Lord Tyrion mused. The thought seemed to tickle him; he chuckled happily to himself as he waddled up the steps beside Jon, who stumbled several times, turning to watch the dragon wheel and turn overhead. "Do you know, you've quite given me the inspiration I needed for me evening's entertainments! I shall write the song tonight, luxuriating in Qartheen silk sheets and getting steadily drunk on fine Arbour amber wines while my whore licks my cock!"

Jon grinned in spite of himself, remembering Lord Tyrion's time at the Wall, bemoaning the lack of female companionship. "Sansa told me you had given up your favourite pastimes, too busy ruling King's Landing."

"Ah, Sansa… Does my elegant wife pine for me?" Lord Tyrion asked, grinning, his eyes twinkling. "Don't worry. T'was a sham marriage - and unconsummated."

Jon winced. "I didn't ask."

"Well - it was," Lord Tyrion asserted. He frowned. "Wasn't."

Jon gave him a sidelong look. "You wanted it to be. I'm not blind to Sansa's beauty. And nor is she ignorant of men's desire for her."

"Doesn't matter, either way."

"Sansa told me about your marriage," Jon murmured. She had told Jon, but he didn't want the Queen's soldiers whispering in her ear. "Your wedding-night."

"Truthfully, I don't remember much of it!"

"She does."

"The North remembers," Lord Tyrion quoted. "She's much smarter than she lets on, Sansa."

"She's letting on," Jon said grimly, because he worried. Cleverness could only protect her for so long. At a certain point, swords would be drawn, and then she would be powerless. And he was hundreds of miles away from her. He had to trust she could keep herself safe until his return… He dreaded what Littlefinger plotted in his absence. He worried for Sansa. They had never been close as children; and had been separated for years - yet Jon could not _abide_ being apart from her now.

"Good."

Jon sighed, glancing down at Lord Tyrion. "Separated from your wife and you embrace the luxuries you once enjoyed…"

"Licentiousness, I have found - through devoted research - is the keystone of my brilliance. You cannot have one without the other," Lord Tyrion mused, and Jon's lips twitched. "I endured a brief period of sobriety, Jon Snow, I have no wish to repeat it. Others will agree I am far more useful as a drunken little lust-filled beast than a browbeaten bookkeeper. You must meet my whore! She has a very fine voice. When I have finished your song, I will send her to sing it to you."

"Thank you for the offer, my lord, but there is no need," Jon said, hiding his laugh, and his blush.

"Come, winter is here - surely you must have a woman warming your bed?" Lord Tyrion suggested. "There were no women at the Wall."

"There were more than you'd think," Jon said shrewdly, and Lord Tyrion turned his lecherous grin on him.

"Ah, one of the ghosts from that long, bloody tale you've promised to tell me."

"You've ghosts yourself, my lord?"

"Far too many, Jon Snow," Lord Tyrion sighed heavily. "Join me for a cup of amber wine from the Arbour, at the very least. I did often think of you while I sat to feast in the sultry warmth of King's Landing."

"I thought of you, too, Lord Tyrion, remembering your wisdom," Jon said honestly, and Lord Tyrion gave a small, sad, satisfied smile.

"How did the lads fare? What were their names…Grenn," Lord Tyrion squinted in thought, and Jon's smile died. "What charming nicknames did Ser Alliser bequeath him?"

"The Aurochs," Jon whispered, gulping.

"That was it. What was the other's name - the runty looking one?"

"Pyp," Jon blurted, pained. "He had a fine voice for songs."

"That's the way of it, is it?" Lord Tyrion said, noting the pain in Jon's voice, his face. "How many brothers have you lost?"

"Hundreds."

"Myself, I have lost one."

Jon frowned down at the dwarf. "Ser Jaime was always your champion, was he not? You have great love for each other."

"The bond between brothers is complicated…but I don't need to tell you that," Lord Tyrion said, giving Jon a wry smile that did not touch his eyes, which remained dark and haunted. Angry.

"No…" No, Jon didn't need reminding that brothers were complicated. He had lost three of his own blooded brothers, and his bond with Robb had always been…what it was.

Lost in thought, Jon gazed at the dragons - three of them, one cream and gold, one green and bronze, the other, the largest, black striated with blood-red - and found himself, unbidden, drawn into his memories of childhood, of Robb and Theon Greyjoy, of pretty Sansa sequestered away with her septa and her sewing, of wild Arya, and impish Bran, and tiny…tiny Rickon. Listening to Larra tell stories of Targaryen dragons that kept the little ones still enough to have their baths before the roaring hearth, mesmerised.

"Jon?" Lord Tyrion said kindly. He sighed, gazing at the dragons too. "I'd say you get used to them…but you never really do."

"What my sisters wouldn't have given to see this," Jon admitted what was at the forefront of his mind, the agony it cost him to voice what he barely entertained thinking about. His sisters. "Arya would've loved it. And Larra…"

"Ah…beautiful Larra," Lord Tyrion grinned, eyes twinkling. Jon had forgotten the Imp was fond of his twin-sister. "Do you know, I have lived some number of years, and the memories do tend to merge together - especially when one considers the perpetual state of drunkenness in which I prefer to spend my days - but some memories are clear as crystal. Alarra Snow, her hair curling to her waist and bedecked with wildflowers, fearfully drunk and arguing the complexities of symbolism in ancient High Valryian odes while soundly _thrashing_ me at dice. Do you _know_ how rare it is to find a beautiful woman who can coherently argue their views on obscure ancient poetry after drinking Arbour strong-wine?"

Jon smiled, heartbroken. "She'd be pleased at least that's your lasting memory of her."

"She thoroughly seduced me, without revealing an inch of flesh," Lord Tyrion grinned lecherously. "Quite the accomplishment… Come, their mother is waiting for you." He nodded at the dragons, and Jon kept climbing.

He had dealt with worse than dragons.

He had outlived worse than Daenerys Stormborn.

* * *

**A.N.**: This chapter was going to be a lot longer, and I have it drafted just not edited and ready to upload! So I thought, as a pre-Christmas gift, another chapter for you all! Because who doesn't adore Tyrion and Jon together?


	14. Bad Blood

**A.N.**: I'm back! I had hoped to update a tonne over the holidays - didn't write a single word! I'm so annoyed. I hope everyone's New Year has been going well!

This chapter is dedicated to _Procrastinator1_, because we have the same view on Daenerys' "faith" speech.

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_14_

_Bad Blood_

* * *

It was all carefully designed, of course, to intimidate, to set him on edge, to put his men in discomfort. To undermine his _power_. Effectively, trying to strip it away: To make him _impotent_.

Jon had expected it.

He remembered Ramsey Bolton snidely muttering that he'd heard rumours: That by the way people spoke, Jon was the greatest swordsman to ever live… Long Claw was not his only weapon: Sansa had hammered it into his mind before he left Winterfell. He had the benefit of an _education_. And a purpose greater than satisfying his pride.

This was what Maester Luwin had spent so many hours assiduously tutoring him for. Him, and Robb, and Larra, and Theon, the four of them cloistered in the schoolroom during snowy afternoons after drilling in the courtyard under Ser Rodrik's hawk-eyed instruction. Geography and economics and the histories of Westerosi politics, religious uprisings and civil wars - context and cause and effect - Valyrian sagas, military strategy, patience and reflection, basic medicine, religions, foreign cultures and woodworking… He'd gained a fine education from Maester Luwin. Compounded by his experiences at the Wall. Anyone who knew the Old Bear could see his qualities in Jon's leadership - consistent, and _fair_ \- and from his father… As King in the North, Jon emulated the example Ned Stark had set as High Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North: Winterfell was strong because Stark leadership was consistent and fair, as the Old Bear's had been, as Ned Stark's had been, as now Jon's was. Consistent, and fair, and inspiring loyalty and love.

He'd left the North relieved that no more talk of stripping lands and castles from ancient Northern families had been grumbled around the Great Hall. With the recent animosities between Stark bannermen and their neighbours, the civil uprisings that had cost Robb the War of the Five Kings as much as Lord Frey's betrayal of guest-right had, Jon needed unity in the North more than ever, he needed to put their disagreements to rest. He needed the Umbers and the Karstarks especially, and the men loyal to them, to remain focused and loyal to _his_ cause: To their very _survival_.

Soon, they would all appreciate that Jon was right, no matter their personal feelings about his leadership.

He fought for the privilege of their lives.

Sansa had told Jon that he had a skill with _people_. He built relationships with them - bastards, Free Folk and lords alike - and treated them as equals, as if they _mattered_ to him.

_Because they did_, Jon had thought, when she'd told him that over a rich stew one windy night, just the two of them together in Father's solar with a fire blazing, Sansa's needle glinting in the light as Jon scratched out yet another raven-scroll and discussed inventory of the grain-stores and success of the root harvests from Winterfell's great glasshouses. _They do matter_.

He would have given in long ago, if he didn't believe that. He was a bastard: And while she lived, Lady Stark would have ensured Jon never had anything to do with any position of authority at Winterfell or in the North that threatened Robb's inheritance - so, it was the Night's Watch Jon had committed his life to. Until he lost it.

Now he sat in Robb's seat, in their father's seat, and he alone could do anything to stop the coming storm from wiping out the world of Men. Because he had looked the Night King in the eye. He knew what was coming. And he'd fought tooth-and-nail to reclaim Winterfell and piece the North back together, consolidating power to put himself and Sansa in a position of strength - to make a difference: To be in a position to _fight_ the coming storm, not just endure it.

They couldn't just wait it out and hope the White Walkers marched on past Winterfell.

The Night King didn't want _resources_. He didn't want gold. He didn't even want power.

He wanted the end of all Men.

He wouldn't ignore Winterfell because its people were poor, and tired, and had little political power because of both those factors. He wasn't going to head straight to King's Landing and take the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister or Daenerys Targaryen or whoever found themselves sitting upon it. The Night King saw them all as meat for his army, to erase their world.

Jon knew _they_ \- lords and low-borns and Free Folk alike - were the only way to stop the Night King.

And after looking the Night King in the eye, after fighting and killing some of his lethal commanders - well, was a girl on a jagged throne truly all that intimidating?

The dragons whorled and careened and spiralled outside, and perhaps Jon could hear their great wings flapping in the corner of his ear, because no other sound echoed through the dank halls of Dragonstone. The fortress forged from Valyrian spells and dragonfire was as impressive as Maester Luwin's books had always promised, but something felt…_wrong_. He was used to the hustle and bustle of Winterfell, the pleasant murmur of noise even in the topmost towers, the ring of steel from the forges and the scullions singing in the pantries of the cavernous kitchens, the small halls where the old women spun and dyed wool and worked industriously on tapestries as small children played at their feet and tugged their sisters' long braids as they sewed tunics and hose and gossiped and flirted with the stableboys who snuck through the laundry to steal a kiss behind the sheets of linen.

Their footsteps echoed off the dank stones, and for a second, the torch-light flickering, Jon couldn't help but think of Shireen Baratheon, perpetually kind-hearted, gentle and young…this had been her home. A Baratheon stronghold, a backhanded gift from Robert Baratheon to his younger brother for failing to intercept the last Targaryens as they fled this very fortress so many years ago. How had that sweet girl grown up so content, so sweet and kind, in this wretched place?

Was there a person in the world who had deserved her fate _less_ than Princess Shireen?

Strange where his mind went to, perhaps it was Ser Davos' nearness, or perhaps it was passing stonemasons removing Stannis' personal sigil where it had been engraved in the wall over a three-headed dragon motif, perhaps it was his first glimpse into the throne room and a cluster of young girls around a stout older woman, but Jon thought of Princess Shireen, and found himself angry enough to raise his chin, set his shoulders, and stride into the room as if he owned it.

_Never forget what you are_, Tyrion had advised him, so many years ago. Jon knew what he was. Bastard-born twin of a sister he missed with every beat of his heart, a tried-and-true warrior, a brother of the Night's Watch, their Lord Commander murdered in cold blood, avenger of the Red Wedding, fierce protector of what was right and good, friend of the Free Folk, King in the North.

_King in the North_. He hadn't inherited the title, hadn't taken it by the edge of his sword, hadn't _declared_ it: He had _earned_ it in his own right.

He had nothing to dread from meeting this self-proclaimed Queen.

Her court was small, mismatched: golden Tyrell roses and the sun-spear of the Martells glinted in the candlelight. On a jagged throne sat a small woman with long silvery-gold hair, hands resting neatly in her lap, back straight, expression imperious, bordering hostile. The Queen's advisers took their places on the steps leading to her throne, Missandei again wearing that benign smile, Lord Tyrion looking rather uncomfortable as the Dothraki and Unsullied took their places lining the walls, blocking the heavy doors that were closed behind the last of Jon's men.

Jon saw the Tyrells; he noted the little girls clustered around the Queen of Thorns. He supposed the elegant olive-skinned woman might be Ellaria Sand, paramour of the legendary Red Viper of Dorne, and beside her two of her many children by the prince. Sands. His cousins.

He saw the Queen on her uncomfortable throne.

He ignored them all.

Because Jon's gaze was fixed solely on the one person he had vowed he would beat to death with his bare hands if he ever saw him again.

Missandei's clear voice echoed off the dank halls as Jon stared at Theon Greyjoy, heralding her queen. Jon didn't hear a word.

The details of his brother's murder whispered through his mind, Grey Wind's head sewn to Robb's body after both were riddled with arrows and butchered: The fate of Robb's wife, and their unborn baby. Even Lady Catelyn, her throat slit to the bone, her body dumped into the river. His siblings' mother. Northmen butchered by their thousands.

_Sansa_, brutalised by the family that had betrayed theirs.

_Larra_, fleeing the very same place, with a simple giant, a broken boy and a tiny feral brother - _fleeing_ Theon.

Sansa, escaping Winterfell, the one place she was entitled to feel safe - _guided_ by Theon.

Theon Greyjoy met Jon's gaze hesitantly. Tension crackled in the throne room, but Jon didn't look at the Queen, nor did he give false apologies. He did not bow to her. Did not acknowledge her, too consumed with the rage that roared in his ears, clenching his jaw, as he stared at his family's betrayer. Robb, Larra, Brandon, Rickon and Sansa.

Robb may yet be alive had Theon fought beside him, rather than betray him.

Larra would never have ventured beyond the Wall with their crippled brother and a simple giant.

Rickon would not have been shot through the heart mere feet from Jon as he galloped to save his little brother.

_Sansa_…

Sansa may be alive because of Theon.

_But Larra_… a voice whimpered in the back of his mind, a tiny voice Maester Aemon had coaxed him to silence forever, the voice of his childhood, a tiny heartsick moan of the little lost boy Jon had always been, seeking the love and devotion and companionship of his twin, his equal in every way, his friend, his fiercest love. _Larra_…

When Ironborn had taken Winterfell and the North was no longer safe, Larra had taken their brothers beyond the Wall…

Who had lit the bodies, to stop Larra and Hodor and broken Bran from joining the Night King's legions? His heart cracked like a great fissure in the ice-meadows of the true North, depthless and devastating.

He _wished_ there was some way Larra and Bran may have beaten all odds and survived the most hostile place in the world. He wished it, when he allowed himself to dwell on it: The truth was, it hurt too much to linger on his sister's fate, the fate of Bran who he'd last seen comatose in his bed, his harridan mother telling Jon it should have been _him_ lying broken…

He didn't linger on Larra's fate, when thinking about her put him in danger of breaking under the weight of the knowledge that everything he had fought for, ever since he left Winterfell, had been for nothing. Larra was dead. Because their family had been betrayed; and Lady Catelyn would rather he had died at the edge of the world than let him be near his family, be useful, be Robb's fiercest ally and protector and soldier, defender of his sisters…

Theon Greyjoy gulped as he stepped forward tentatively, until he was barely a foot away from him. "Jon… I didn't know…you were coming here… Sansa, is she -"

Jon forgot he was strapped with weapons. He forgot soldiers and savages lined the walls of the hall, would skewer him in a heartbeat if their Queen gave the signal. He forgot Ser Davos was beside him; he forgot that his men were behind him.

All he saw, in that instant, was an image of Larra, dead and rotting and icy blue-eyed in the snow.

His long, clever fingers wrapped themselves around Theon's throat, and he squeezed, his body on fire with rage and grief and guilt.

Jon didn't notice that he had shot over a whole head taller than Theon Greyjoy, or that a grim-faced woman in kraken-emblazoned leather lazily gripped the hilt of her dagger as she watched Jon strangle Theon with his bare hand.

He only noticed the grief and guilt in Theon's eyes, and only barely registered that Theon was not fighting him off.

He recalled strangling someone in the crypt before he had left Winterfell.

Littlefinger had sold Sansa to the Boltons.

Theon Greyjoy had saved her from them.

"_What you did for her - is the _only_ reason I'm not killing you_!" he promised Theon, seething with fury, roughly releasing him, and he thought Theon nodded as he staggered away, massaging his throat and coughing.

"Lord Greyjoy, you know this man?" asked a cold voice. The Queen, trying to insert herself - tired of being ignored.

Wheezing, never breaking eye-contact with Jon, Theon said quietly, sorrowfully, "He's my brother."

Jon clenched his jaw, his veins throbbing with pain as fire raced through them, _fury_, itching to strangle him again. "Robb was your brother. Bran and Rickon were your brothers." His voice reduced to a whisper as he seethed, "_Larra_ was your sister. And you betrayed them."

Theon had the grace to look ashamed as he admitted, "I did."

"Larra…she was the she-wolf you told me about, wasn't she?" The woman in the abused leather looked thoughtfully at Jon. Her voice was soft, grim, monotonous, but laced with the irony Jon remembered in Theon when they were boys. "She killed three Ironborn with her fangs and claws and a cleaver."

Theon glanced from the woman to Jon, and corrected quietly, "It was a meat-hook."

Yara Greyjoy looked fondly at her brother, and then gazed at Jon, not quite a smile on her face. "What we do to protect our little brothers."

"She sounds like quite a warrior," said the cold voice. "A wonder you did not bring her south with you to protect you."

Jon's gaze did not leave Theon's face as he said bluntly, "She's dead. Do I need protection, Your Grace?" Finally, he turned his gaze to Daenerys Targaryen.

"It seems not; you still bear your weapons," she said coolly, and Jon scoffed softly. He was still strapped with his weapons - and had gone for the kill with his bare hands in spite of the dozens of soldiers lining the halls. "Did my advisor not ask you to hand over your weapons?"

"She did; I refused. I won't leave my men unable to defend themselves, Your Grace," Jon said. _All this effort, for one man_, he thought, and Sansa's voice murmured, _She's threatened by you_.

"To whom am I speaking?" the Queen sniffed, as if she did not know.

"This is Jon Snow. Son of Lord Eddard Stark, brother of Robb Stark, a sworn brother of the Night's Watch," said Theon Greyjoy, and there was something new and unfamiliar in his voice when he added, "He is King in the North."

Almost like respect.

Jon had never heard it before.

"Thank you for travelling so far, my lord. I hope the seas weren't too rough," said Daenerys Stormborn, and Jon's eyes lanced to the Queen. _That's the way of it, is it_? he thought, sweeping his gaze slowly from the tip of her silver-gold head to her leather-covered toes, and not hiding his disdain. He had parleyed with Free Folk with more manners.

"He's not a lord."

Jon glanced at Theon Greyjoy. He had spoken quietly, but clearly, and Theon Greyjoy was staring defiantly at the Queen, his chin raised. "He is _King_ in the North."

"I never did receive a formal education, Lord Greyjoy," Daenerys Targaryen said coldly, and continued with a condescending air that would have immediately put Larra's back up, itching to verbally slap her fiercely back into her place. "But I could have sworn I read the last King in the North was Torrhen Stark, who bent the knee to my ancestor, Aegon Targaryen. In exchange for his life, and the lives of the Northmen, Torrhen Stark swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity. Or do I have my facts wrong?"

Glancing away from Theon, Jon said politely, "I wasn't there, Your Grace."

"No, of course not." A cold, condescending smile. "But still, an oath is an oath…and perpetuity means… What _does_ perpetuity mean, Lord Tyrion?"

The old woman in black exchanged a _moue_ with the eldest of her rosebuds, the kind of look Larra might once have given Jon, and the look Sansa had described to Jon when she had told him about the Queen of Thorns. Lord Tyrion grimaced a little, as he remarked, "Forever."

"Forever," Daenerys Targaryen repeated, with a poisonous smile. "So I assume, _my lord_, you're here to bend the knee."

Theon Greyjoy's eyes danced from the Queen to Jon, as his grim-faced sister frowned; across the throne room, the elderly Tyrell raised an eyebrow at the veiled Martell woman.

"I am not." Jon knew his face was grim, implacable. The face of every Northern king who had come before him.

"Oh. That is unfortunate," Daenerys Targaryen said. "You've travelled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?"

At that, Jon laughed outright, his earlier rage at Theon swept aside, rankled by this tiny woman with her condescension and arrogance. Jon had allied with and advised and betrayed kings before: And Daenerys Targaryen could have learned much from Mance Rayder, and from Stannis Baratheon. She could have learned from Ygritte, and Tormund, and Lady Mormont, and Sansa, and Princess Shireen, Samwell Tarly and Gilly.

He wondered what Sansa would make of her - and knew, in his heart, that Sansa's teeth would be set on edge by her - reminded all too vividly, though they shared no physical attributes beyond an untouchable, polished beauty, of Cersei Lannister.

Jon remembered the look on Cersei Lannister's face as Larra was untied from the post where she had been flogged - for no other reason than because Cersei had taken it as an insult to her beauty that Larra possessed so much of her own, and the King had noticed.

Vicious, cold beauty. Arrogance.

Jon had half a mind to coax her North simply to watch Sansa shred her to pieces.

In her absence, the task fell to him, Larra's voice echoing in his ears, memories of their debates in the schoolroom with Maester Luwin filling him with warmth, and humour, and sorrow.

"Any Northern oaths sworn to House Targaryen went up in smoke with the bodies of Rickard and Brandon Stark as your father burned them alive. Any bonds of fealty were broken when Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped and _raped_ Lyanna Stark," Jon declared bluntly, and Lord Tyrion winced. Daenerys Stormborn did not react. "House Targaryen broke faith; and the North remembers." Theon Greyjoy smiled sorrowfully, eyes distant as he gazed at the floor. The words of all Northerners, ever since the Red Wedding. Daenerys Targaryen's pretty features became unpleasant as her face twisted with anger. Jon glanced at Theon, who had been there when Jon had been forbidden the privilege... "And the last King in the North was not Torrhen, the King Who Knelt. The last King in the North was the Young Wolf, Robb Stark, who was undefeated on the battlefield when he was murdered. I'm not certain when Lord Tyrion came into your service, Your Grace, however, I find it difficult to accept he wouldn't forewarn you of the state of things in Westeros. How else could he help you plan your conquest of the Six Kingdoms?"

"Six kingdoms?" Daenerys Targaryen blinked. "The Iron Throne rules over _seven_ kingdoms."

"It did. For three hundred years, House Stark honoured its oaths to the Iron Throne. Until the cost of fealty proved too high. The price of our freedom from the iron Throne was paid in fire and blood," Jon said, and Lord Tyrion's lips twitched toward a smile as Jon used the Targaryen words against her. "From the time Robb Stark was named King in the North until the end of time, the North will remain a free and independent kingdom, as it was for _thousands_ of years before the first Targaryen conquest." A bald man near Missandei gave Jon a shrewd look.

"Our Houses were allies for centuries. And those centuries were the best the Seven Kingdoms have ever known," Daenerys Targaryen said, and Jon thought he could see a glimmer of the woman who might have inspired Tyrion Lannister to become her Hand. Her face started to soften, her eyes widening, a gentle coaxing smile on her lips. Jon saw the smile, and remembered Cersei. Remembered Larra's back shredded, and his sister's sluggish, pain-drenched murmur that _the Queen wanted new ribbons_… Jon saw that smile and remembered cruelty. "Centuries of peace and prosperity, with a Targaryen sitting on the Iron Throne and a Stark serving as Warden of the North. I am the last Targaryen, Jon Snow. Honour the pledge your ancestor made to mine. Bend the knee and I will name you Warden of the North. Together, we will save this country from those who would destroy it."

Jon stared at this Targaryen girl, this self-proclaimed Queen, frowning. What he had expected, he didn't know… After the Night King, nothing seemed to measure up, of course, but…he hadn't expected to be so…_disdainful_. He thought of Mance, inspiring the Free Folk; he thought of Stannis, who had abandoned his fight for the Iron Throne because he had known the true threat to Westeros came from the North…a righteous man, if poorly advised… This woman…he didn't know. He was not impressed.

She was either poorly educated, or ignorant by choice.

"I am not beholden to my ancestor's vows. You say you'll _name_ me Warden of the North. The Northmen have already made me their king: The Northmen, who united to protect themselves from those who would destroy our country," Jon said, and he couldn't keep the scathing condescension from his own voice, that she thought a pretty face and her offer would ever touch him. He couldn't help narrowing his eyes, and sneering softly as he continued, "And you talk of peace and prosperity under Targaryen rule: Was that when Maegor waged war for decades on the Faith Militant after taking his six Black Brides, wives he tortured and butchered? When he murdered the thousands who toiled to build the Red Keep, in order to preserve its secrets? When the Dance of the Dragons saw the country burned and broken as Targaryen fought Targaryen and their dragons bathed the Seven Kingdoms in fire? When Daemon sacrificed tens of thousands of lives to keep a hold on Dorne? When the Blackfyres rose in rebellion after Aegon the Unworthy caused discord by favouring his bastard over his trueborn son? When your father bathed good men, honourable men, in wildfire?"

As he spoke, Daenerys Targaryen's face grew colder and colder; those Westerosi around her exchanged speaking looks, that they, too, knew their histories, and remembered. And did not respect her for ignoring the truth of the past.

"The only fair reigns of Targaryen monarchs were those of Jaehaerys the Wise and Aegon the Unlikely - Aegon built upon the laws Jaeherys wrote centuries ago, to protect the people of the Seven Kingdoms. Your Hand will tell you his father unworked everything Aegon fought for when he became Hand to your father," Jon said, nodding respectfully to Lord Tyrion, who was _not_ his father in spite of their shared brilliance with strategy - according to Sansa. Daenerys Targaryen narrowed her eyes as she observed this indication of respect, glaring at Jon as he said, "You've been reading revisionist histories, Your Grace, no doubt written intended to flatter you."

"Clearly you have no intention of flattering your rightful queen," she said through gritted teeth.

"I might, if I had one," he said bluntly, and Daenerys Targaryen's face leeched of expression. The Queen of Thorns exchanged a smirk with the sultry Dornishwoman across the chamber. "I will not apologise for wounding your pride, Your Grace: I will do whatever I must to protect the people of the North. No Northman will ever kneel to a Targaryen again… Will you burn my people to get what you want?"

The bald man draped in unusual robes flicked his gaze from the Queen to Jon, giving him a measuring, thoughtful look, before glancing at the Hand of the Queen, who was wincing thoughtfully, but staring at Jon as if mesmerised.

"Surely you did not come all this way to insult me."

"You can take my truth as you wish, Your Grace. You wage war on Cersei Lannister, on the Iron Throne: The North has declared its independence _from_ the Iron Throne, and will defend it - no matter who sits on the Throne," Jon said, with a fierce bite. "If you truly wish the best for all the people of Westeros, as your people claim, you would be wise to begin your conquest by respecting the sovereignty of House Stark over the North, from Hard Home to the Neck, from Skagos to Cape Kraken. Devote your time to those in the south who _do_ need you. You came to Westeros to war against monsters; don't take the North from just rulers for the sake of your pride."

If Daenerys Targaryen could have snarled in anger without it looking undignified for a Queen with a trailing name, Jon supposed she might have. If she might have exposed her teeth as a threat, she would have.

Her reception of him, and her reaction to him, told Jon all he needed to know.

She was here to take the Iron Throne, and would not stop until she had it, and everything she believed belonged to it - including the North.

Daenerys Targaryen would destroy anyone who stood in her way…no matter that they were defending their home, their people - from her.

He sighed heavily, glancing around the chamber.

"It's been a long journey, Your Grace," he said, tiredly but politely. "I request food and drink for myself and my men."

"You did not bring your own?" was the cold, tart reply.

"Oh, I've supplies enough on my ship, if your army overextends your own provisions," Jon told her, meeting her eye. With a sharp, unyielding bite, Jon met her eye and challenged, "It's guest-right I want for my men."

"Guest-right." Her eyes darted to Lord Tyrion, whose lips had parted, and Jon raised his eyebrows. She had to consult her Hand about _guest-right_? When he knew it was observed in Essos just as much as Westeros - even the Dothraki had their rules about weapons in their sacred city. He exchanged a grim look with Ser Davos, and saw Theon Greyjoy watching the Queen closely, exchanging a look with his sister that had Jon's stomach aching for Larra, the way they had silently communicated with each other with such ease.

"The only common custom among Westerosi people, Your Grace, irrespective of rank or gods, honoured all the way from the most southerly point of the Arbor to the icy wastes far beyond the Wall," Lord Tyrion explained. "Guest-right is respected by all."

"Except the Freys," Jon said, with a pointed look at Lord Tyrion, whose father, it was widely known, had orchestrated the massacre of the Red Wedding, without getting so much as a speck of blood on his own hands. Grimly, threateningly, Jon said, "But winter came for them."

"To violate guest-right is to incur the wrath of the gods," Theon Greyjoy said softly.

"Superstition." A tight smile from the Queen, dismissive.

Jon narrowed his eyes at her. "They say you stepped into the fire with three stone eggs, and stepped from the ashes with three new-hatched dragons," he said coldly. "And _you_ sneer at the wills of gods?"

Outside, they could hear the shrieking of the dragons. Jon glanced from the windows to Daenerys Targaryen. "Think they came into the world again to put you on a throne?"

She levelled her gaze on him, but Jon did not so much as blink. He had warred against giants, killed White Walkers, assassinated men he admired, seen his brother shot through the heart feet from him, held his lover in his arms as she died, his name mixing with the blood on her lips.

This Queen was so much more intimidating by reputation.

In person, well…

"What do _you_ think they came into the world for, Jon Snow?"

"As we speak, White Walkers lead an army of the dead upon the Wall," Jon said quietly. He didn't have to raise his voice: He wondered if the others had stopped breathing, the better to hear him spar with their lady. "You and Cersei Lannister are children engaged in a game, screaming that the rules aren't fair."

The Queen's expression turned colder. She glared at her Hand. "You told me you liked this man."

"I do."

"In the time since he's met me, he's refused to call me Queen, he's refused to bow and now he's calling me a child." _She sounds like one_, Jon thought, watching her carefully. How long since anyone had denied her?

"I do not deny your rightful place on the Iron Throne, Your Grace, only your sovereignty over the Northern kingdom," Jon corrected. And he would keep reminding them all that the North was no longer under the sovereignty of the Iron Throne. "And a king does not kneel to another monarch. I'm calling _all_ of you children, Your Grace, all of you who are engaged in the game of thrones."

"A figure of speech, Your Grace," Lord Tyrion said, giving Jon a careful look.

"Everyone you know, everyone we love, will die before winter's end if we cannot defeat the enemy to the North."

"As far as I can see, _you_ are my enemy to the North." Cold and curt and stubborn. It was no wonder he'd heard rumours she burned what did not yield.

"I am not your enemy. Nor shall I ever be your subject. We will all - Stark, Targaryen, Dothraki, Lannister, Free Folk and Summer Islanders - be dead before winter's end if we do not unite to fight the incursion from the True North," Jon said vehemently. "White Walkers march against the Wall, and they will find a way to breach it. Their armies of the dead will march south and destroy the world of Men."

"The dead," the Queen said, her voice devoid of anything except disdain. "Is that another figure of speech?"

"The army of the dead?" Lord Tyrion frowned at Jon.

"You don't know me well, Lord Hand, but do you think I am a liar?" the King asked, and Tyrion felt a subtle thrill at being referred to as Lord Hand - and was reminded of their shared time at the Wall. Of his advice to Jon Snow - and of his uncle's grim words to Tyrion regarding the North. "Or a madman?"

"No, I don't think you're either of those things, Your Grace," Tyrion demurred: In truth, he had a healthy respect for Jon Snow. There was a reason he had risen from steward to King in the North, and he had no dragons to do the work for him. Many of his brothers had died _beside _him - not for him: They defended the Seven Kingdoms, and they would do it - Tyrion remembered Benjen Stark's words - _so plump little lords like you can enjoy their summer afternoons in peace and comfort_…

"Grumpkins and snarks, you called them, do you remember?" Jon Snow's lips twitched with a sad sort of irony that did not touch his grim grey eyes. "You visited the Wall and spent weeks combing through rare texts in the library - you listened to my brothers' stories about their Ranging parties… You spoke with my uncle about what lies beyond the ice."

"I remember… He gave me an excellent nugget of wisdom handed down by your father, I recall…" Lord Tyrion said, remembering, _anything after the word 'but' is horse-shit_… "He warned me I could not know what he had seen, what he had endured…"

Jon sighed heavily, gazing around the throne room. This had been Stannis Baratheon's home for years. His daughter had been raised here. Ser Davos had served Stannis here, first as Lord of Dragonstone and then as King…

"A long while ago, now, Stannis Baratheon abandoned his claim on the Iron Throne - because he knew the greatest threat to Westeros lay beyond the Wall," Jon said, glancing at Tyrion, who had fought Stannis' forces at the Battle of the Blackwater, and according to Sansa, had received his scars there. "But it wasn't the Free Folk gathered under one king for the first time in generations… He gave the Watch his ships; we headed to Hard Home to bring the Free Folk south of the Wall to safety. Some we saved; thousands died on the shores when the White Walkers came, commanding their legions."

"Did they ride on giant spiders pale as ice?" Tyrion couldn't help it; White Walkers were from myth and legend, and therefore comfortably far-off.

"No. Horses, my lord, icy-eyed and rotting," Jon said solemnly. "When they breach the Wall, the North will fall first. And thousands more soldiers will be added to the White Walkers' armies of the dead." The King in the North levelled Daenerys Targaryen with a look, a stern Northern look that set leaders apart from the rest - the intractable, unyielding looks of men who had been forced to make horrific decisions to safeguard their people, at the cost of something very precious. "They say you're a liberator, you want to help those who cannot protect themselves: Your dragons will help you take the Iron Throne, I've no doubt. But you'll not sit long on the Iron Throne if you do not help win the war against the White Walkers."

A moment of silence, Jon Snow's words settling into the heart of everyone who had been brought up to dread the myths and legends of the White Walkers. It was the earnestness with which Jon Snow spoke that had such a profound effect. He spoke from the heart; he spoke with absolute truth.

And they all knew it.

"I was born at Dragonstone. Not that I can remember it. We fled before Robert's assassins could find us," Queen Daenerys said offhandedly, rising from her jagged throne. She gave Jon an accusing look, her tone snide as she said, "Robert was your father's best-friend, no? I wonder if your father knew his best-friend sent assassins to murder a baby-girl in her crib?"

Jon's eyes narrowed, and his words made them uncomfortable: "When Stannis Baratheon's fleet approached Dragonstone to murder your remaining family, my father was in Dorne, seeking the sister Prince Rhaegar had kidnapped and raped. His sister, who died in his arms."

Daenerys Targaryen may choose to be ignorant of the truth of the destruction of her family's dynasty - how it had been entirely of their own making - but those gathered in her makeshift court were not: They understood the truth of the Rebellion.

The bald man with his hands lost in folds of rich fabric spoke for the first time. His voice was pleasant, clever, and devoid of any accent: "Lord Stark resigned his position as Hand of the King when King Robert sent assassins to murder you and your unborn child. On his deathbed King Robert knew Ned Stark had the right of it; Lord Stark asked preparations for your assassination be cancelled. My little birds had already flown…"

The Queen's eyes narrowed cruelly. "Yet I lived."

"By the will of a Northman," Jon Snow said: He had heard enough from Tyrion on their painful walk from the quay that it was a Northman, a Mormont, who had stayed by Daenerys Stormborn's side since her first marriage. Lord Commander Mormont's only son.

Daenerys Targaryen ignored his quiet remark. "I spent my life in foreign lands. So many men have tried to kill me, I don't remember their names. I have been sold like a brood mare, I've been chained, betrayed and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing, through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen."

Jon inhaled, and let out a heavy sigh. As she had spoken, her features had morphed, eyes widening, lips thinning, colour hinting at her pale cheeks, making her look almost mad.

All he could think of was Larra. Of Sansa. Of Ygritte. Of Gilly-flower. Of Arya, and even of Lady Catelyn. He looked carefully at the other women in the room - at Lady Olenna Tyrell; at the Red Viper's whore, Ellaria Sand - last tenuous connection to Elia Martell, who had endured torment beyond imagining; at Theon Greyjoy's grim-faced sister, a hard captain of even harder men in a society that distrusted and abused women. He thought of Lady Lyanna Mormont; of Fat Walda Frey whom Sansa never truly spoke of, except to say she had been a kind lady undeserving of her fate - herself and her newborn son ripped apart by hounds…

Jon was not impressed. Perhaps Daenerys Targaryen believed she alone in this world was the one woman who had endured brutality, and emerged from it stronger, capable, fierce and unrelenting.

Jon thought of Sansa in her fierce new gowns, the steely glint in her pretty blue eyes - the iron beneath her beauty.

What had Sansa had, to survive unknown horrors, but her mind, her own agency?

There was a danger in believing too much in oneself, to the detriment of compassion toward others' struggles.

He caught Theon's eye, and knew they both thought the same thing, the same _name_. Sansa. He glanced at Lord Tyrion, and knew the Imp realised it.

Realised Jon was not impressed by this small woman with weapons of fire made flesh, and an army of savages at her command, not when Lady Mormont had led her sixty-two men into battle at the age of ten, fierce and wise far too early in her life; not when his sister had traversed the frozen North in nothing but a cloak to escape her sadistic husband, after surviving court with nothing but her wits and her courtesy; not when Gilly had been wed and bred upon by her own father, and fled, fighting off White Walkers, to protect her newborn son in the most hostile environment in the world, knowing that fleeing south meant certain death just as staying in the North did, because she had been born a wildling. Not when Jon had fought side-by-side with Karsi against the White Walkers, leader of the Free Folk in her own right, picking up the pieces after Mance's army had been routed, protecting her people, making hard choices for their future.

"I've had the privilege to know many women who've endured all that and worse, Your Grace, with no great name to cling to, and no dragons to kill for them," Jon said, looking down at the tiny, arrogant woman who had approached him. She had seemed larger when sat on the throne; in person, she was almost two whole feet shorter than him, and angry. She was very beautiful, yes: But Jon couldn't look at her without seeing Sansa, and Gilly, and Lyanna Mormont, and Lady Brienne, and Larra. "As far as I can tell, the only thing that separates you from every woman in this room, in this world, is those three beasts circling the island."

Anger twisted her otherwise pretty features. Coldly, defiantly, she almost hissed, "The world had not seen dragons for centuries until my children were born."

Jon levelled her a look, and asked her grimly, "And what would you be without them?"

* * *

**A.N.**: Because, seriously, would she have even have survived the Garden of Bones outside Qarth if the Thirteen hadn't been curious about the dragons she had with her?

I'm also working on a _Court of Thorns and Roses_ and a _Gossip Girl_ fanfiction - the _Court of Thorns and Roses_ story will eradicate Feyre as the main character; and the _Gossip Girl_ one is inspired by the announcement of the reboot this year. If anyone has any ideas/requests, please PM me (or leave a note in your review!)


	15. Objectivity

**A.N.**: To _Joldino-Sidestreaker_, you must have speed-read the last update in about 0.5 seconds! You reviewed so quickly, I got whiplash! Thank you so much! This chapter is dedicated to you, and also to _LiliLoveNutella_, I think you've been marathon-reading my stories this weekend! And to _breezzylife12_, _RHatch89_, and _pistonsfan75_, thank you for your reviews!

Who else binge-watched _The Witcher_? Anyone wondering who my face-claim is for Gendry - Henry Cavill. Those _thighs… _He's what I imagine Robert would've looked like in his prime.

Also, the face-claim for Alynore is Kristine Froseth (of _Sierra Burgess is a Loser _and _The Society_).

I've been listening to "Marry Me" Suite from _Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End_ a lot this week; I like to think it's a bit of a theme for Larra (with all of the Stark music and especially "The Last of the Starks" of course!)

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_15_

_Objectivity_

* * *

"Well?"

Only slightly startled this time, Alynore set her tiny teacup down in its delicate saucer and licked the last of the fragrant Qartheen tea from her lips, thinking quickly. Her grandmother seemed to find the moment when Alynore was at her most relaxed, unguarded, to harangue her with questions - to unsettle her, and see how Alynore responded to pressure and scrutiny.

If she could learn to outwit the Queen of Thorns in verbal sparring, Alynore supposed she would be prepared for any diplomatic situation life threw at her.

"He took command of the chamber the moment he entered it." To her grandmother, she often said the first thing that came into her head: Firstly, Grandmother was impatient - but she always said there was no 'wrong' answer - they discussed Alynore's observations, and built from there. Alynore, her grandmother was discovering, had inherited her shrewdness.

Her grandmother chuckled softly, shaking her head sadly. "He reminded me of Rickard. The Northmen have such a peculiarly recognisable presence. Of course, half of it is inherited, but Jon Snow has built his through experience. They are grim, and quiet as a breed, yes; but it's the calmest person in the room you'd be wisest to mind, my dear."

"He wasn't particularly calm when he throttled Theon Greyjoy," Alynore remarked, and her grandmother's wizened mouth twitched.

"Bad blood, my dear; it gets the better of us all," she warned sadly. They were here, on Dragonstone, because of bad blood - bad blood between the Cersei on the Iron Throne, and any Tyrell who had survived her. Bad blood had compelled Olenna Tyrell to ally with the _Martells_; together seeking out the last Targaryen. Formidable allies, allies they needed to wipe out House Lannister. The Queen's Hand seemed to be the fiercest advocate for annihilating the Westerlands, erasing House Lannister from the tomes of history. Given the trial he had endured for regicide - the trial that had cost Dorne its favourite prince - Alynore wasn't surprised Lord Tyrion had turned on the family that had betrayed him. "And it is never wise to come between a Stark and his sister."

"The King is not a Stark."

"Not in name, but he has the blood," her grandmother mused. "More than that - he has the respect of his people - and Northerners are a _hard_ people. They are the largest and poorest realm in Westeros, constantly at war with the wildlings beyond the Wall, at war with _winter_… Hardened, proud, fierce men are not so easily won - yet they named a bastard their king."

"Ser Davos said the King has united Northmen with the Free Folk from beyond the Wall." Alynore fiddled with the tiny cake in front of her: They had brought many supplies from their larders, gifts of Arbor wine from her grandmother's Redwyne relatives, as had Prince Doran's emissary Ellaria Sand. The Queen had brought strange, exotic delicacies from Meereen and Volantis and even Qarth, and graciously shared some of them, perhaps as hints and enticement of the treats that could be expected when she sat on the Iron Throne and her empire spanned from Westeros all the way to Dragons' Bay. She wondered whether fear or awe compelled people to provide tribute to Daenerys Targaryen's conquest: Give her treats and move her on, before she set her greedy dragon's eyes on their hoards of treasure. "Jon Snow allied _with_ his enemies, and brought them under his protection… They say wildlings advise him in council, just as Northmen and Knights of the Vale do… Daenerys Stormborn freed slaves and conquered Dothraki…but she either abandoned them in economic distress or brought them across the world to make war for her…"

"Interesting, isn't it, that a woman who proclaims to be devoted to peace and prosperity seeks to enforce it with open war," Lady Olenna smiled ironically. It didn't reach her watery blue eyes, which were shrouded now with constant grief. "Jon Snow took a great gamble coming here; was he particularly wise, do you think, in doing so? Why did he not send an emissary?"

"If what he says is true - and the Lord Hand seems to trust Jon Snow's earnestness, even if he doesn't believe in White Walkers…" Alynore began thoughtfully. Lord Tyrion was drunk and oozed irony most of the time - Grandmother said he was a great deal more interesting now that he was intent on preserving his still-living body in alcohol - but when he was sincere, even if he was absolutely slaughtered from drink, they knew he was being serious. And Lord Tyrion respected Jon Snow, King in the North. It hadn't escaped the Westerosi present in Queen Daenerys' court that Lord Tyrion had from the very beginning and without fail addressed Jon Snow as Your Grace. He respected Jon Snow's position even if the Targaryen queen refused to. And they found themselves following the Hand's example. Alynore herself was not…delighted with the Queen's pride. "I don't think Jon Snow would risk an emissary's safety by sending them; that implies he would rather risk his own life than condemn another's by sending them into hostile territory… He values others' lives above his own… The Queen said Jon Snow would not bow to her - and he shouldn't; the North have reclaimed their Kingdom and named him their ruler… But he was respectful that she _is_ a Queen… He has shown respect to her position in coming in person - a King meeting with a Queen…and she was vile to him."

She was glad of the thick, engraved stone walls to muffle their voices. Grandmother did not trust that there were not ears in the stone, listening; but the truth was, Queen Daenerys had _not_ presented herself at all well this afternoon, and even if the Spider heard their words through his little birds, Alynore wondered what the Master of Whisperers would actually tell the Queen. The Queen had set everything up with her advisors to unsettle the King in the North and get the measure of him while under pressure - emulating Grandmother's tactics with Alynore during their lessons - but she wasn't bright enough to realise that while she was trying to get the measure of Jon Snow, her tenuous allies were given opportunity to scrutinise and get the true measure of Daenerys Stormborn.

Alynore…wasn't impressed.

Initially, she had been awed by the Queen's beauty, fascinated by the intricacy of her braids, drinking in every wardrobe change, marvelling at the exquisite skill of the Queen's dressmakers, until Grandmother's questioning made Alynore realise that she was more impressed with the _gowns_…than the Queen herself.

That was a problem.

The Queen's words were very pretty: Her actions so far had failed to match them. With the benefit of her youth, her anonymity, and her non-threatening prettiness, Alynore had the freedom of the fortress and surrounding lands to investigate for herself, to overhear things, to see things others wouldn't - she was _underestimated_ because of her youth and beauty. Over the last few weeks, she had become less and less impressed by the Queen - Alynore continued to admire her gowns, yes, but the Queen herself…disappointed Alynore. What little highborn girl hadn't grown up yearning to go to court, in awe of the mythical Queen she heard stories of, praising her beauty and virtue and wisdom and goodness - they had been speaking of Cersei in Alynore's youth yet it was directly applicable to Queen Daenerys, who was falling short of Alynore's expectations - especially with her reputation for justice.

Alynore was starting to believe that the stories of the Queen's _justice_ were purely based on the Queen being the _survivor_: She had lived, therefore her version of events was told. And because she had lived, she was _right_. Therefore everything she did was good, and just… That worried her.

It worried Alynore that she had seen the Dothraki raping a girl in the quay, without repercussions: Rapers in the Reach were swiftly sent to the Wall, or cut. It concerned Alynore to see the lack of boats out fishing, to provide food for the locals to preserve for the winter. It concerned her that the Queen's plans did not include due care for the people she had brought across the seas, who were being given no direction from their leader, struggling to adapt to the island… And Alynore, who walked with her little cousins every morning past the Dothraki camp to the little fishers' hamlet at the coast, knew first-hand that the Queen's adopted peoples were struggling. They did not know how to fish the seas: The island could not sustain hunting, and they had little to no experience with agriculture, especially in this climate.

Alynore knew the _theories_ behind agriculture - her House's wealth was founded in their fields, after all - but not the practical nature of farming: She only knew gardening, a pastime her septas agreed was acceptable for a young lady, especially a lady born of House Tyrell. They were expected to take an interest in gardens: Highgarden was of course named for them, and famed throughout the world for their gardens. They were supposed to contribute. Alynore was a lover of flowers, not a farmer: But common sense told her that a starving people was a dangerous one, and the Dothraki were becoming agitated - they subsisted on horse, yet they could not risk their horses because of the Queen's invasion. Every bloodrider needed a horse, and another to ride if the first fell: They could not spare the horses to feed their people, and were not being given the tools they needed to find alternative ways to provide for themselves…

Alynore was concerned by the atmosphere in the eerie fortress, and the Queen's lack of warmth - Jon Snow's reception was not outstanding in the Queen's brittle, forced politeness: Consistently, as the Queen's advisers engaged in battles of wits to sway her one way or another, advising patience and politics, and immediate and unrelenting assault, her impatience gave way to foul moods that set most of them on edge, waiting… Too many of the older people who had come to Dragonstone remembered the Mad King. They had witnessed his malice and his madness first-hand.

With her all-consuming focus on King's Landing, on the Iron Throne, nothing beyond acquiring the Iron Throne, 'ruling' was an afterthought. Lady Olenna had been invited to sit in on the council sessions: Grandmother was not impressed that the Queen consistently refused to plan for what happened _after_ she took the Iron Throne - to think about her policies _now_, so that implementing them would not take long, to help her establish her rule quickly, efficiently and irrevocably: Taxes, foreign trade, military pensions, justice, agriculture, religious tolerance… _Succession_.

It was constantly a worry to her Grandmother, who had left Alynore's cousin Willas at Highgarden to implement their plans: He was the only man in the family Lady Olenna truly respected as having a hefty dose of intelligence and agency, worthy of leading their family through the greatest tragedies it had faced in generations - in spite of his crippled leg, which had done nothing to diminish his wits.

Willas was the future of House Tyrell: Alynore was the eldest surviving granddaughter of Lady Olenna, and the closest thing Willas now had to a surviving sister - she was a precious commodity, pretty and beguiling and of marriageable age - essential for alliances to secure the future of their House, of the Reach.

Queen Daenerys would not speak of the future beyond capturing the Iron Throne: And she either ignored that there was a necessity for it, or had faith that her advisors knew how to rule her people, for she had no interest in learning how to lead them. Alynore wondered whether the Queen even knew her people were bordering desperation. She didn't know which was more unsettling - a ruler who had no interest in her people; or a ruler who trusted the prosperity of her people utterly to her advisers, lying to herself about their contentedness.

Jon Snow had come to Dragonstone because he didn't trust that his people could come in his stead and be safe. The rumour was he had left his sister, Lady Sansa Stark, as _chatelaine_ of Winterfell, as _de facto_ Regent of the North in his absence, and according to Lord Varys' _little birds_, was doing a splendid job of readying the North for both winter and invasion: Jon had made provision for his people's security even in his absence, in the possible event of his capture or execution at the hands of a foreign queen. He would not risk their lives; but had risked his to ensure theirs by asking for help against an enemy no-one believed in.

"Do you believe him?" Grandmother asked, looking her right in the eye. "Did you think he was handsome?"

"Very handsome," Alynore admitted, her cheeks warming, fidgeting subtly under her grandmother's smirk. And _tall_, so deliciously tall, his dark curls cropped, his beard clipped neatly, his cheekbones sharper than his Valyrian steel sword belted at slender hips. Broad shoulders, and an implacable look so sharp, so kingly, she didn't wonder why battle-hardened Northmen had yielded to him, why wildlings had allied with him. She had immediately liked his simple, fiercely masculine way of dressing, boiled leathers and coarse wool, thick, worn and serviceable, and barely of better quality than what his men wore - he wasn't a man who thought much of his dress, and was certainly not a man defined _by_ his dress…

She imagined he could be dressed in rags and still, people would flock to him as their leader. She imagined he had had little better than rags as a brother of the Night's Watch, where they flung the dregs of Westeros to be forgotten. And yet the Northmen had named him their king - not because he had acted like one, or dressed like one, or demanded they treat him like one: Because he had earned their respect as their leader.

Alynore sighed softly. "But that's not why I think he's telling the truth."

"No?"

"It would be…reckless to ignore his warning. He has had a difficult life, and after all that, has come all this way to warn people, potential enemies, that their lives are in danger," she said earnestly, gazing at her grandmother. Jon Snow was either stupid or the most unselfish person she had ever met. "Not because he has anything to benefit from it; he came because it is right that everyone who can be warned to do something about it can."

"Starks have never historically been _scheming_ by nature but they are brutally honest," Lady Olenna mused. "It would be far more comfortable to sneer and brush off his warnings, but -"

"He's come all this way, knowing he'd likely be murdered on the spot," Alynore said softly, and her grandmother nodded.

"And yet he's here, just the same," Lady Olenna said softly. "Starks have always been righteous; one would think them frightfully dull. But I must say I rather enjoyed watching him ruffle feathers in the throne room." Her grandmother chuckled, eyes twinkling impishly.

"What does Ellaria Sand have to say about him?"

"Nothing very much of consequence, only that her paramour had journeyed beyond the Wall. According to Prince Oberyn the Free Folk are a people more ferocious and unpredictable than the Dornish," Lady Olenna said, waving her hand enigmatically. "For Jon Snow to have allied them with the Northmen, their most bitter enemies…"

"That takes strength of character," Alynore said softly, fiddling with her many, delicate little gold rings. Grandmother watched the dragons keening and whirling in the air beyond their windows; they were always flying, and Alynore wondered if they were joyous to be home - more joyous than their _mother_. Perhaps they sensed they were home, on this volcanic island. She wondered briefly where Daenerys Targaryen had come across three dragon-eggs; the rumour was the last in Westeros had perished in the Tragedy of Summerhall when Aegon the Unlikely died with most of his family, and Prince Rhaegar was born. "Do you think she'll kill him?"

"Oh, she still believes she's a woman and queen of immaculate morals," Grandmother sniffed derisively, waving her hand; the large blue stone, a turquoise, glowed on her finger, stark against the rich black brocade Lady Olenna was wrapped up in. "And she has two good eyes in her head; rumour has it she likes them tall, dark and handsome. She'll be in heat for the King in the North."

"Grandmother!" Alynore wrinkled her nose, as her mother smirked.

"Save your blushes, my dear," Grandmother chuckled. "If I were younger…"

"If you were younger, none of this unpleasantness would have happened," Alynore said, with the conviction of youth. She knew her Grandmother well: And had Olenna warred with Cersei in her prime, the lioness of Lannister would have been annihilated. More than that, Westeros would have prospered, and perhaps risen from the backwards reputation it had suffered for centuries as great city-states like Braavos rose from the swamps and Qarth reigned eternal. Westeros had stagnated.

"It would have been quite something, to challenge Cersei, as I was in my prime," Grandmother mused.

"You're still a force to be reckoned with," Alynore smiled sadly. Less so, since Baelor: Something had fractured irrevocably in her grandmother's spirit. She was…fragile, in a way Alynore had never viewed her grandmother as vulnerable. "Has the Spider whispered anything about Cersei, and what she intends for the Reach?"

Grandmother cocked her head to one side, her pleated veil swishing silently over her shoulder, and eyed Alynore shrewdly. She pushed her large turquoise ring around her finger thoughtfully, rubbing the stone with her thumb. "What would you do? If you were in Cersei's position? Facing treason and invasion?"

"Treason? If Daenerys Targaryen wins we shall be celebrated for our defection, the last of the Tyrells, who fought to dethrone a tyrannical queen…" Alynore said gloomily. _If _the Queen's conquest was successful. She had been thinking about what happened next ever since Grandmother whisked her away from Highgarden to act as lady-in-waiting and confidante, to be tutored at her grandmother's elbow in the arts of diplomacy. "As the Starks say, _winter is coming_. If I were Cersei, and I knew there was an army ready to invade, I would…take all the food, or access to it, at least. Starve everyone else to the point of capitulation and compliance, to feed my armies."

"The Reach, then; she will set her eyes on the breadbasket of Westeros," Grandmother sighed, nodding. "Your cousin believes the same."

"Could our men stand against the Lannister army?" Alynore asked dubiously. The Tyrells were famous for their pageantry, not their strategy. During the Rebellion they had fought for the Targaryens - for Rhaegar - and relied heavily on the military brilliance of their bannerman Lord Randyll Tarly. Alynore hoped her cousin Willas had thought to approach the proud lord. He was an unpleasant man, but he knew strategy.

Lady Olenna sighed heavily: She was in no way ignorant of their family's pitiful military strength. With Loras dead, the great hope of their family for a warrior was gone: Willas was cleverer, but crippled - their bannermen would not respect him as they should for his brilliance, because he could not sit a horse beside them and lead them on the battlefield. "In favourable conditions, we might have a very slender chance of beating them back. At least long enough for Daenerys Targaryen's forces to break a siege."

"Then why are the Queen's forces not marching to Highgarden, laying siege to the Rose Road?" Alynore asked grimly, and her grandmother's face crinkled expressively, her eyes twinkling.

"Why not, indeed," she said softly. Alynore narrowed her eyes at a truly reprehensible thought.

"They won't take prisoners this time, will they?" she said softly. In blowing up the Sept of Baelor, Cersei had crossed a line. In declaring herself Queen as the pit still smouldered, her son's body lying broken at the foot of the Red Keep, she had sent a message to all of Westeros, all the world. Cersei had been playing the game for years; now she was setting the terms. She had nothing to lose, now: Her two sons were dead, one in her arms, one by his own choice, and her daughter resided in peace and tranquillity in the Water Gardens of Dorne, never to return to her mother's embrace while Prince Doran and the Sand Snakes and every Dornishman lived to remember their beloved Prince Oberyn.

"No. Cersei declared to all when she blew up the Sept of Baelor that she places no value in hostages," Grandmother said quietly. "She will see this out, to whatever end."

"To whatever end," Alynore echoed sadly. She was acutely aware at all times that she sat by her grandmother's side, conversing with her as student and heiress, because her cousin Margaery was gone: Otherwise she would have been left to live out her days as another wallflower in the rose-garden, pretty to look upon but indistinguishable from all the others. There were too many Tyrells.

_Had been_ too many Tyrells.

Alynore glanced at her grandmother. "Are they underestimating her viciousness?"

"The Queen's advisors? I do not believe so," Grandmother mused, "however it is one thing to be a brilliant strategist with the benefit of intimately knowing your enemy, and being a proud young thing set against listening to anyone's advice but your own."

"She's ignoring their counsel," Alynore sighed.

"They give insight, and Lord Tyrion has foresight," Grandmother sighed heavily, shaking her head, "yet in spite of all warnings, the Targaryen girl has come this far without educated men such as these to guide her, and been triumphant."

"She _burned_ everyone else, that's why," Alynore sniffed, and her grandmother gave her an arch look. "She has no diplomacy."

"Oh, none whatsoever. She was not raised by them, but she is every inch a Targaryen," Grandmother smirked nastily. "Hostile, entitled, totalitarian. And utterly, _utterly_ convinced in their gods-given rights to conquer, to inflict their will upon those lesser than themselves. She reminds me of her father, in the beginning."

"What was he like, before the madness?"

"Oh, I am sure the potential was always there, Duskendale only enhanced it," Grandmother said, frowning thoughtfully. "He was clever, but erratic. Lacked commitment, above all things. Excellent ideas, no grit to see them executed. Lord Tywin ensured the realm did not suffer, as the king flitted from idea to idea, never settling, never satisfied. He was charming, though, in the beginning. As this queen is charming. But dangerous. You never forgot that Aerys was the king. As she will not allow us to forget she is the Dragon Queen."

Alynore frowned out of the window, as the green dragon soared past. Terrifying as they were, she could not deny they had a certain awing majesty. "She relies on them."

"Mm… And what is she without them?" Grandmother asked, echoing Jon Snow. Her pale eyes were twinkling, and she was smirking - she looked almost like her old self, like the sharp-tongued grandmother Alynore remembered.

"You liked him," Alynore realised, and her grandmother chuckled.

"He is blunt and earnest and it was a delight to see that proud little girl soundly smacked," Grandmother said, smiling. "I'm not surprised the King in the North is unimpressed by the girl's monologue…not after everything his family has suffered, all his sister has endured."

"What was Sansa Stark like?" Alynore asked: She had never set foot at court, never seen Lady Sansa, but her cousins had said she was beautiful. Lady Olenna did not speak for many moments; she rubbed her thumb over her turquoise, her watery blue eyes faraway.

"She survived Cersei," Grandmother said softly, and Alynore watched her face, reading her expression. Grief, yes: Sansa Stark had accomplished a feat not even Margaery, for all her beauty and brilliance, could pull off. Grief, yes, for Margaery, and their family's loss: but also respect, for the girl Lady Olenna Tyrell had underestimated.

The Queen of Thorns wouldn't make the same mistake again.

"We were all so distracted by the vulnerable, tragic beauty and her courtesies, we never saw the wolf-pelt bristling beneath the petals," Lady Olenna said poetically, but her face fell, grief-stricken, earnestly bemused. Lady Olenna sighed. "Now the she-wolf has been sharpening her claws."

"Could a wolf kill a lion in combat, do you think?" Alynore asked.

"Oh, certainly," Grandmother said, waving an impatient hand. She added shrewdly, "A wolf never hunts alone."

"How does a steward of the Night's Watch become King in the North?" Alynore wondered aloud. The Queen's titles told her story: Jon Snow was King in the North, and that was that. It left everyone wondering who he was. It left them curious, _wanting_… Whatever Jon Snow's journey had been, it would be utterly unique. After the exhibition in the throne room, Alynore thought she had the measure of the Queen - and of Jon Snow. "Jon Snow was right; nearly every woman on this island has endured the same and worse than the Queen. Jon Snow's story seems worth hearing."

"Then ask him to tell it, though I'd wager he'll be reluctant. Northmen are men of few words," Lady Olenna smirked. She sighed, shaking her head. "They say the Young Wolf was wise beyond his years…he certainly had strategy, brutalising the old lion across the Riverlands, snaring the golden one… Those boys were raised together."

"They were brothers."

"One was a bastard. Lady Catelyn was a proud cow. They were brothers; Jon Snow was threat to her son's inheritance," Lady Olenna said, shaking her head. "One wonders how the fate of House Stark might have been shaped had Jon Snow been left behind as castellan of Winterfell as Robb Stark marched to war."

"Likely he would have been skewered by Ironborn," Alynore sighed. "They leave no man behind who could ever raise a weapon against them."

"Happily for Alarra Snow she was no man," Grandmother quipped.

"But she died anyway," Alynore said softly, thinking of the pain and fury in Jon Snow's eyes when he had spoken of his twin-sister. Alynore had never been to the North, never even seen snow, but the wandering crows told stories of the Night's Watch and the True North beyond the Wall, and she knew the King's twin-sister had died beyond it in frozen wastes, forgotten.

She couldn't help wonder, briefly, what would happen to the Night's Watch now that the North had allied with the wildlings. If Jon Snow wasn't lying, and the White Walkers weren't just figments from legend…this was what the Watch had been created for - not to keep away savage men, but to keep away true monsters. What if they were real; what if they could be defeated, with all allied Westeros… What then?

Alynore wondered if Jon Snow had thought that far ahead. If he had allowed himself the luxury of thinking there was even a glimmer of hope that they _may_ survive monsters from legend…if he planned ahead. What provision could he make for the survivors of the Night's Watch, who had known nothing but honour and service and deprivation in the name of doing what was right.

Had Jon Snow thought it out? Had he sat with his sister, _chatelaine_ and heiress of Winterfell, of the North, and worked out what happened next - every possible outcome? How did they best secure the future of their people, and how did alliances forged in the fires of true terror affect those decisions? What would become of the wildlings _after_? Had he thought about the economy of the North, poor and largely left to itself, scratching meagre livings off rocks? Grandmother said Northmen were _prudent_: They lived off what they had, and thanked their old gods for even that much. They were…in shocking contrast to the pageantry and frivolousness of the Reach: Their cultures were absolutely opposite.

And Alynore made up her mind to discover how Jon Snow had become King in the North; and what made him worthy of the crown, and how - or whether - he would continue to earn it.

Because gifts given could always be snatched away.

There was no security.

The Red Wedding had taught them that, long before Baelor had.

"How will the Hand and Lord Varys advise, do you think?" Alynore asked her grandmother, who sat in on the council meetings, though refused an official place in the Small Council until Daenerys had claimed the Iron Throne. The contention between warmongering Lord Tyrion and the more diplomatic stance of Lord Varys was well-known by now: They had enjoyed working together to thwart common enemies to protect King's Landing from Baratheon invasion and Northern aggression, and were friends, Alynore thought, but advising the Queen was different entirely. They were not _protecting_: They were _conquering_. One coaxed for minimal loss of life and diplomacy, cleverness and caution, patience: the other championed wholesale slaughter and destruction to ensure that every trace of the disease that was Cersei Lannister was burned from the land, from the very pages of history.

"Interestingly, Lord Tyrion may champion Jon Snow. They have a past friendship, and a sense of mutual respect," Lady Olenna mused.

"But allying with Jon Snow would divert their cause from the Iron Throne," Alynore countered, and her grandmother's eyes twinkled as she shifted, turning herself toward Alynore more fully, the better to look her in the face, as her Grandmother liked to say, to see the whites of her eyes. "It is more likely Lord Varys will champion his cause, when helping the North defeat its enemy could cement allies in Westeros. The Queen needs Westerosi allies, allies in a position of strength. The Starks are reasserting their strength."

"A feat none thought possible after the Red Wedding," Lady Olenna said softly. Her eyes were strained, pained, when she smiled at Alynore. "A lesson to us all."

"She won't want to help. Her pride is wounded. She's come here to save Westeros and the Starks have already saved the North for themselves and their people," Alynore said. "They wouldn't have named Jon Snow their king if they didn't believe in him… She came expecting to be wanted, and needed; the North doesn't need her."

"Oh, they need her armies," Lady Olenna waved a hand. "Lord Tyrion will see they are not committed to any cause but destroying his sister utterly."

"Do you think it is possible she might actually try and earn his respect?" Alynore asked. "Daenerys, I mean. I don't believe she's used to not impressing other people. Jon Snow wasn't at all impressed by her."

"He didn't embarrass himself by panting at her heels, you mean," Lady Olenna snickered. "Oh, she's used to men becoming cunt-struck at the sight of her, the thought of bedding her… Night's Watchmen take no wives, and father no children; they live their lives for a cause greater than their own… They are used to deprivation, to making the hard choices. They are of that rare breed who are trained not to think with their cocks, in spite of having full use of them."

"The North can't afford for him to yield to her," Alynore said, and her grandmother nodded.

"So he shan't." Lady Olenna's eyes twinkled viciously. "It shall be entertaining to watch the tables turned on Daenerys Stormborn. She's never met a man who hasn't wanted her; never met one she could not bend to her will."

"She'd never met a Northman."

Even in the Reach, the stubbornness and honour of Northmen was legendary. Jon Snow was the last of the Starks to engage in the game of thrones, for the sake of survival and honour - Alynore wondered if he was following in the footsteps of Lord Cregan Stark, who ended the Dance of Dragons during the Hour of the Wolf, defining the Targaryen dynasty by championing and crowning King Aegon III… She imagined he had been warned against coming south, against following the footsteps of his grandfather Rickard Stark, the man whose fiery execution beside his son had sparked the Rebellion.

The Starks had historically had the power to make or break the Targaryen dynasty.

She hoped Daenerys Targaryen realised it would be in her benefit to make a friend of Jon Snow.

* * *

**A.N.**: A little insight into the minds of background characters, Lady Olenna starting to groom Alynore; and their opinions of Daenerys and Jon Snow.


	16. Home

**A.N.**: I keep listening to "The Last of the Starks" and that song breaks my heart; it encapsulates everything I love about the show. Oh, the cellos!

To _FoxFabled_, _Moshi_ and _RHatch89_, thank you for the reviews: _FoxFabled_, I intend to bring in some of the Sand Snakes to address the atrocity that was D&D's Dorne! _Moshi_ \- I'm glad I'm not the only one who misses the introspective moments we were treated to in the early years! And _RHatch89_ \- exactly! Daenerys even mentions to Olenna that she's only there out of hatred for Cersei. Olenna's too smart and suffered too much not to be weighing her options.

* * *

**Valyrian Steel**

_16_

_Home_

* * *

They stopped at every holdfast and hamlet, helping those who struggled to leave their homes due to the snow, sickness or recalcitrance. The column kept moving, herding cattle, swaddling newborns delivered in the fiercest snowstorms in centuries. Bran guided them, and direwolves guarded them from worse monsters. More died on the journey: Any who fell were burned where they landed. It was a relief, as much as it was tragic: Fewer to fight the winter, but also fewer to feed through the winter.

It was well into their fifth week of travel when she saw it. It wasn't the snow whirling around them thickly that disoriented them, reducing everything to indistinguishable dark shapes; it was the howling winds. This winter had long threatened to be the worst in living memory. She had seen the eye of the storm to come; it would be. The storms had been getting more and more violent as the weeks passed: She had endured worse, north of the Wall - but anyone who had looked the Night King in the eye would brace against this storm, and realise…his power was growing, his influence over the elements strengthening. Whatever power the Children had bequeathed so foolishly to their creation was building once again: All Man could do was weather it out. Fight. Survive. Rebuild. And remember.

The Wall still stood: Regardless, winter chased at their heels. Larra, who would never forget the unfeeling malice, the pure intent in the Night King's eyes, kept driving them further, faster: She had empathy for those who struggled but if they sank back into the snows to wail and catch their breaths, they were lost - she would have been taken by the storm years ago. She couldn't afford to look back.

But then she saw it. There was a break in the storm, the iron-grey clouds parting briefly to shine meagre silver light on the snow-strewn landscape, the sky brightening as the snow gentled, and the wind died. The world became still, breathless almost. And she knew where she was. Intimately.

Their path wended alongside a river, unfrozen even in these storms; it was fed by hot-springs, the same as piped hot water through the walls of Winterfell, the same that fed the pool in the godswood where Father cleaned his sword under the heart-tree, watching the water ripple. In winter, steam rose from the churning water, so thick it looked like fog. Everywhere around the water, around the steam, the ice had melted, the snow did not stick; animals crept to the water's edge, and high above, in ancient trees bowing their limbs toward the water, tiny dew-kissed buds ready to unfurl into fresh green leaves, were dire-eagles. Hundreds of them, ink-eyed and half as tall as an Umber, a coronet of tufted feathers around its head, talons like meat-hooks and incredible stormy plumage of greys and whites making it perfect camouflage for the winter - for hunting. Hundreds of them, waiting in the trees, watching carefully. It unnerved most who noticed them, made the hairs stand up at the back of their necks. The dire-eagles couldn't care less that thousands of Men wandered past their hunting-grounds: They had easier prey in mind.

Larra knew this place. It was her favourite place outside Winterfell, and Father had told her stories about the river that defied even winter itself. Maester Luwin had called the phenomenon - of the unfrozen river in winter, a thriving haven to wildlife in one of the harshest places in the world - a _microcosm_: a meticulously-balanced ecosystem within another, larger environment. In the heart of winter, predator and prey would gather near the water: The eagles waited for Man to pass by, so they could return to their fishing. The river churned not with rapids but with _salmon_ that had spawned during the autumn. The direwolves scented the area as they padded past, marking territory and familiarising themselves with fresh scents the snow had hidden from them for leagues. Larra could see where deer had stripped the bark from trees close to the water's edge, where the steam had thawed the ice.

Father used to theorise that Brandon the Builder had chosen to build Winterfell where he had because he had likely been following the river, where he and his people could survive the harshest winters. Once, Larra's ancestors had lived like the Free Folk, migratory, following their food-supply, chasing warmth: It was Brandon who set down stone and built a great keep, using curiously advanced irrigation to pipe hot water from the rivers through its walls to keep the bite of winter at bay.

She marvelled in the river, the first time in her life she had ever seen it in the heart of winter, pure and bare and extraordinarily beautiful, those thousand birds perched patiently, steam drifting in a gentle breeze that started to whistle as their path wended away from the water, through thicker woodlands, and as the last eagle disappeared from her view, Larra glanced around, identifying markers she used to use when hunting, familiar and yet not because the winter had stripped everything she knew from her memory. She sat up straighter in her saddle. She dug her heels into Black Alys' sides. Edd called to her, his voice tinged with concern. She ignored him. And rode on ahead, weaving her way through the column, past smallfolk on foot and carts laden with grain and meat, wagons full of children and nursing mothers, skirting around herds of cattle, leaving them all behind.

The river wended to the left; she followed an ancient path to the right, curving around and up a steep hill that had forever created natural fortifications for Winterfell - the same natural fortification that had cost King Stannis Baratheon his campaign when he led the assault against Ramsey Bolton. It left attackers blind to Winterfell's advancing cavalry or infantry, gave the armies precious moments to ready themselves and either be waiting to slaughter, or sneak around the rises and take advancing enemies unawares from behind, using the ancient wolfswood as protection. Yes, Brandon the Builder had been canny indeed when he chose to lay the foundations for Winterfell where he had.

Larra crested the hill.

There it was.

_Home_.

Nestled comfortably and conspicuously among the flawless white moors: Winterfell.

Even from her vantage, Larra could see the vibrant, violent red of the weirwood heart-tree dominating the ancient, sprawling godswood.

Her heart cracked, and she stared at her home in grief and stunned disbelief - she was home. There and back again… The last time she had seen the heart-tree…she had been sobbing into Maester Luwin's bloodied grey robe, a part of her heart withering and dying as the life-blood seeped from that marvellous man, her hands shaking as she gripped the coarse material of his cowl, the sting of metal cold against her hands as his heavy chain clinked against her fingers, and his spindly hands trembled as he rested them on her shoulders, raising her face in his hands, stroking her tear-stained cheeks with his thumbs, as he had thousands of times before. His kind, lined face had been drawn in pain and anguish - at his parting from them - and he made her promise…protect her brothers… "_You're the only one who can_…"

Tears pooled hotly in her eyes, and stung her cheeks as they slipped down her wind-bitten skin, gazing at Winterfell, her memories an onslaught as devastating as any army cresting the invisible rise ahead.

Black Alys snorted and stamped impatiently, but Larra didn't respond, blinded by tears, by ghosts, trying to catch her breath as she stared at her home. She never thought to see it again.

She shoved the tears from her eyes, sniffing, and focused on the horizon, on Winterfell. The moors were not unblemished, she realised, squinting in the snows that had returned, more gently than they had been most of their journey, delicate kisses whispering against her skin, as if nature itself was trying to soothe her, to say, "Welcome home. We've missed you."

A haze of dark smoke lingered like a dense blanket over Winter's Town, rising up to from the moors past the South Gate, busier even from a distance than Larra had ever known it: All of the North had gathered to Winterfell to endure the storm, and the town had been built for the occasion. Banners flew high over the grey stone buildings, whipping and snapping in the wind, colours whitewashed from ice and snow but still recognisable due to the rich dye pigments and designs. Many familiar Northern banners, but some unusual ones - unusual in that they flew over Winter's Town at all: Corbray, Belmore, Melcolm, Hunter, Templton, Egen. Valemen. Lesser lords from the Riverlands: Blackwood, Darry, Pyper, Mooton, Strong and Vance. Even a Tully trout, black against the blue and red Tully colours. _Brynden the Blackfish?_ she thought, slightly stunned. Lady Catelyn's uncle - and a legendary warrior. One standard stood out, quartered with yellow suns emblazoned on rose and white crescents stark against azure blue. Tarth. How had the North secured support from the Evenstar?

Black Alys stamped her hooves and snorted, fidgeting: A smaller horse appeared in the corner of her eye - not a horse. Last Shadow. Hot breath pluming in the cold air, her night-black coat sparkling with melting snow, her inky eyes glittering with the warmth of embers as she raised her muzzle to nudge Larra's leg. She looked Larra in the eye, and started padding away, toward Winterfell. Larra could do nothing but follow. She sniffed, wiped her face, sat up straighter in her saddle, and kept her pace slow as the rest of the column started to catch up. The sighs and chatter of exhausted people finally reaching safety was like music as it spread through the column like wildfire, relief and delight mingling with cries: They had made it.

_You made it_, she thought to herself, a mixture of grim acceptance and wonder. _There and back again_… She glanced over her shoulder, finding the familiar wagon where Bran was entertaining Little Jon and Ragnar with stories that would frighten even a Thenn, guarded by several direwolves and Night's Watchmen: Edd rode ahead to meet Larra.

"You alright?" he asked, and Larra nodded mutely.

"Winter's Town looks to be filling up," she said. "Knights of the Vale and _Tully_ bannermen."

"How did that happen?" Edd frowned. He had been born and bred in the Vale: As one of Jon's greatest friends and advisors and acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Edd had a better picture of what had been happening throughout the rest of Westeros. The last he had been informed, the Lannisters had helped the Freys claim Riverrun, using Edmure Tully as hostage and leverage to surrender the castle without bloodshed. There were claims Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, had died in the ensuing skirmish when he refused to meet Lannister terms. He had escaped the Red Wedding, they said; Larra marvelled that his standard flew above Winter's Town. But then…she was returning to Winterfell, after being declared dead, after surviving the True North and all the horrors of legend and nightmare.

Stranger things had happened than seasoned old warriors surviving battles.

"We shall soon find out," Larra murmured, and Edd nodded, his eyes on the horizon, squinting through the gentle snows.

"I'll spread the word. Bannermen ride on ahead to the castle; everyone else settle in at Winter's Town," Edd said, and Larra nodded her agreement; he turned his horse around and trotted off, to pass orders along the column. She let Black Alys go, trotting gently along the path carved through the snow, snowbanks eight feet high and looming over them: The path had been created by foot-traffic and wagons - ahead, she could see several carts and a flock of black-faced fluffy Northern sheep being herded by clever Northern sheepdogs. Larra was reminded fleetingly of strict Septa Mordane trying to corral boisterous Arya, as Sansa preened by the hearth with her needlework, and the thought made her lips twitch as her eyes drifted to the castle, looming ever larger, ever closer. She glanced over her shoulder, seeking out Meera's dark curls; she must have her head covered, as Larra did, against the bitter wind that had made her ears and back of her neck throb.

Winterfell.

It was full of ghosts - some of them exquisite, filled with delight and wonder, with warmth and love and friendship. It was the others that plagued her mind now, wheedling into the crack that had appeared in her heart long ago, weeping and screaming as Theon Greyjoy butchered Ser Rodrik in the courtyard, shaking with rage and grief as the Ironborn gave up Mikken to their Drowned God… She had been bullied and nearly raped in that castle. They had hidden in the crypts like common criminals - her, and Osha and Brandon, Rickon and sweet Hodor. She had turned away as Osha unsheathed her blade to gift Maester Luwin with mercy in the godswood. Smoke had billowed from the castle itself as they strode away across the moors, headed north to find Jon and some illusion of safety, long before they had ever met the Reed siblings. Winterfell was where her family had once been whole; and where she had experienced the first of the great horrors to define the woman she had become.

Her breath came in short, sharp bursts as she drew back to match pace with Brandon's wagon, Meera resting beside him, tired and bleak-eyed. She met Larra's gaze, and they communicated without speaking: Not all of them had made it back to Winterfell. Osha, Hodor, Jojen, Rickon, Shaggydog… Larra didn't need to voice her trepidation about returning, about setting foot inside the courtyard still, in her memory, soaked with Ser Rodrik's blood, about praying to the very same heart-tree under which Maester Luwin had been given the gift of mercy, the warm halls that had turned into her prison cell, hunted by Ironborn for sport.

They were digging a deep, wide trench. The poor sods who had to dig had broken through the frozen earth, and great mounds of it were piled outside the trench, forming a rise _living_ infantry would find difficult to scale without being riddled with arrows - only to find a sudden drop and death beyond even if they survived the archers, an impassable boundary… Only a very narrow path, barely wide enough for a single wagon to pass through, had been left for access, a hundred yards to the right of the South Gate, which was being refortified with new gates made of ancient oak from the wolfswood, behind a new double-portcullis of tempered steel. _Strong_. Stronger than anything the Free Folk could ever craft.

She was gratified they were preparing: She also knew better than to think any of this would hold up against the Night King's armies for long. A _living_ army would be deterred by the trench and fortifications, and perhaps the trebuchets, launching fiery projectiles, might put a dent in the advancing hordes…but the Night King's armies were not living. They did not tire; they felt no fear, or pain. They did not stop. They were fodder. And utterly, utterly in the control of their commanders. They would not break ranks, they would not flee. The dead would not stop for anything. Anything but fire or obsidian…

Still - they were preparing. And Jon had fought the dead at Hard Home - and lost. Edd had been at his side, fighting alongside the Free Folk to get as many of the wildlings onto Stannis Baratheon's as possible: They'd talked about it, on their journey south. Edd had seen hardened wildlings _weeping_ as the Night King raised the dead on the shores of Hard Home.

Winterfell was not Hard Home. And they were not going to be caught unawares, fractured, scattered - they had _time_, that precious commodity. They had weapons. And they had a fierce leader supported by equally fearsome advisors and chieftains and warriors, and allies experienced in many different kinds of warfare. That combined experience, combined resources, the strength from unity…

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it," she murmured to Edd, who glanced away from a trebuchet being pieced together by a team of rugged Northmen and Free Folk - recognisable by their furs.

"What's that?"

"The difference it might have made, had Mance been allowed to lead the Free Folk south of the Wall," Larra sighed. Edd nodded to himself.

"Even as I die I'll still remember the shores of Hard Home," he muttered, scowling in the snow. He sighed heavily. "Jon wondered the same thing, you know. We knew even as Mance Rayder marched his armies upon the Wall that the true enemy was the dead…but too few of us knew, or believed…"

"We built the Wall so we would never forget the threat," Larra said, pulling the fur down from over her mouth so her voice wasn't muffled. "The memories faded into myth and legend…we forgot. When we should have been afraid, and waiting."

"Can't help but think what we'd be doing now if Jon had never joined the Watch," Edd said, raising his eyes to the great outer curtain wall of Winterfell.

"Strange how a single decision can alter the course of history," Larra sighed glumly. She had always known, since they were children, that Jon would join the Watch. He was unwelcome at Winterfell, as Larra was, but he had opportunity due to his gender; and he was awed by Uncle Benjen's stories of Ranging. These weren't the lives either of them had imagined for themselves when they were small. Jon had joined the Watch, risen to Lord Commander, and defined the history of the Watch's last war. The North would never forget his name.

If they survived the Long Night.

No-one stopped them as they made their way through the trench, across the narrow bridge of earth left untouched for easy access for the men working on the trebuchets; the few already constructed were launching projectiles, marking their range to improve their positioning. Carts laden with freshly-hewn tree-trunks rested beyond the trench, men working to sharpen some to savage points to embed in the trench, others to go toward more trebuchets; she grieved briefly for the wolfswood. The sacrifices they had to make if they wanted to survive.

Some of the men turned to watch, and Larra realised it was because of her - rather, because of Last Shadow, who padded silently beside Black Alys, hulking and gorgeous, bigger than any pony, lethal - and _familiar_…

A blur of something enormous and white streaked out of the gate: Last Shadow raised her muzzle to the skies and howled with relief as Larra's heart swelled - _Ghost_!

Brother and sister pelted toward each other, tumbling together as they met, yipping and nuzzling, scenting each other, licking each other's muzzles affectionately,_ playing_ together for the first time in years.

Men nearby backed away from the wolves, stunned and awed. Perhaps they were used to Ghost: But Lady had been killed years ago, Nymeria lost, Grey Wind butchered, and Shaggydog slaughtered. They wouldn't know the rest of Ghost's litter. They wouldn't know the bond between Ghost, the albino runt of the litter, and Last Shadow, whose eyes had been open, howling adorably to Larra so they weren't overlooked when Robb and Theon had gathered up the other pups mewling and whimpering and blindly seeking their dead mother's milk. She still remembered Last Shadow, a tiny pup with soft down black as night and lustrous as velvet, a keen-eyed, brazen, cunning thing even as a pup as Larra taught her to hunt in the wolfswood. Larra had been so in love with watching Last Shadow grow, and learn, building on the instincts and resilience as a pup to one day survive the frozen wastes of the True North and, as a mature direwolf bitch when all her brothers and sisters were taken from her, form her own pack.

Larra handed Black Alys' reins to Edd, and climbed out of the saddle, her legs aching, drawn to the two direwolves, as much her home as Winterfell was. Last Shadow howled her delight, and in the distance howls echoed back, each unique; the rest of the pack had stayed back from the castle, instinct warning them against coming too close. But Last Shadow knew this place…she had been drawn home…to her brother.

"Ghost," she murmured, and the albino wolf, hulking and snow-white, fidgeted in the snow, ears twitching toward the sound of howls as Last Shadow licked his muzzle and nipped his ears. Glowing ruby eyes turned to Larra. She remembered Ghost slender and gangling and silent; before her, now, stood a beautiful strong, mature wolf, his face handsome and thoughtful and sorrowful, as if the emotion of every tragedy Jon had survived had pooled in his eyes, which were wise and sad even though they unnerved most. Some said Ghost's eyes were the colour of blood: Larra knew they were the colour of weirwood amber, pure and vibrant.

If ever they needed confirmation that Larra and Jon were truly born of Northern stock, all anyone need do was look at Ghost, bonded so fiercely to Jon: With his weirwood-white fur and red-amber eyes, Ghost was the living embodiment of the North - of the Stark sigil and their First Men ancestry, linked so closely to the Children and the weirwoods that their devotion to heart-trees persisted in spite of invasion and conquest and beguiling new gods.

She fell to her knees in the muddy snow as Ghost approached; kneeling, he loomed over her. She didn't see Edd ride on; or the wagon trundle past with Brandon and Meera watching from their furs. A subtle smile lifted Brandon's sombre face as he watched Larra reunite with Ghost.

Tears slid down her face: Silent as she always remembered him, Ghost licked the tears from her face, so, so tenderly. His clever, sad eyes examined her face, remembering, recognising; he tucked his muzzle under her chin, chuffed gently, and licked her face, her ears. His thick fur warmed her exposed skin as tears slid down her face, tickling her chin; her body shuddering with sobs, her eyes burning from tears, she looped her arms around his neck and hugged him, hugged Ghost, as much a part of her brother as Last Shadow was a part of her. She buried her face in Ghost's fur, his warmth seeping into her, his musty familiar scent soothing her, filling her with extraordinary memories to chase away the nightmares, memories of Shaggydog jumping out at them in the crypts; of Grey Wind and Summer tearing across the moors as Bran whooped and yelled in his new special saddle; of Last Shadow's self-satisfied lick of Larra's face after she brought down the stag Theon had been itching to successfully hunt for months; of Nymeria and Lady play-fighting and licking each other lovingly in the godswood as Last Shadow taught Shaggydog how to stalk their sisters; of Summer contentedly licking the cutthroat's blood from his paws as Bran slept on; of Shaggydog and Summer cuddling with her brothers in the abandoned holdfast as they waited out a storm, warm and for the moment safe, the worst horrors behind them as far as they had known then, sleeping peacefully.

Ghost raised his paw, landing it heavily on her back, wriggling in her arms; his tail was wagging when she opened her eyes, raising her wet face from his fur. He snorted gently, his breath pluming in the air, gazed at her with those red-amber eyes, and gently licked the last of her tears away.

"You've been looking after him, haven't you," she moaned, her smile tremulous as Ghost's tail started wagging again, and she raised her hand to stroke his face lovingly. He sniffed at her fingers, licked them, and gave them a brief, sharp, not unpleasant nip of affection. She gulped back more tears, wiping her face on her furs, and rose on weak knees, her fingers trembling as she grasped the hilt of her sword for something solid to hold onto; Last Shadow and Ghost prowled beside her, brother and sister on either side, as she approached the gate on foot. People moved out of the way for her - for her, and the direwolves.

Contentment, relief, swept through her for the first time in ages, Ghost and Last Shadow walking so close they bumped against her as they walked, matching pace, their heat radiating through her. She let her fingers trail through their thick fur as they walked. She knew Jon had gone south to meet with Daenerys Targaryen; but Ghost was here. Part of Jon was _here_. She followed the happy chatter and the sound of excited, contented people working hard, not pausing to reflect on the shiver that passed down her spine as high stone walls seemed to close in on her, unfamiliar shadows looming overhead - she had become unaccustomed to great stone structures, to castles and courtyards and looming towers. She had become used to the caves under the weirwood; to the open, endless grey skies; to the bare skeletons of trees whipping and cracking in brutal winds. For the briefest moment, she felt as if she was being crushed.

Then she saw the Stark banners hanging from the walls, grey direwolf against a pure snow-white landscape, and calm seemed to suffuse her body, her lungs cracking open to take in the cool air, the warmth of the direwolves at either side soothing her ragged nerves. She focused on the hum of activity, the anvils singing in Mikken's great forge, the women clustered around open fires weaving baskets, old men fletching arrows and carving bowls and spoons, orphans helping wizened women prepare food in cauldrons hoisted over great fires.

The smallfolk of Winterfell were preparing for war. And yet they were _happy_.

They knew war was coming, but could not comprehend how devastating things would soon be: They were content to know that the Starks had returned to Winterfell, reclaiming the North - Starks were once again taking care of their people.

She heard the soft murmurings, the singing of women and the chatter of busy, contented people, the hacking of axes and chiming of hammers against anvils, heard the gasps as she relished the sight of her father's sigil hanging from the walls once more, and her eyes flicked down to waist-height as she entered through a small gateway, where a new oak door banded with steel stood flanked by two freshly-hewn direwolf statues. She knew they were freshly-hewn: Generations of Starks had worn down the ears and noses of the direwolf statues guarding the entrance to the crypts as they passed their fingers over the fearsome effigies, each time they descended the age-worn steps into the ancient crypts, the burial-place of their ancestors…their brothers and sisters… Her mother.

Her mother rested beneath the courtyard flagstones. She had rested, in peace, with her brother and father, visited often by Ned, who held vigil over her, lighting her candles and bringing her flowers, bringing light and warmth and perfume to the dank crypts…

Larra glanced away from the entrance to the crypt and entered the courtyard, noticing a grim-faced man in a billowing yellow cape, Free Folk in their furs, and a shrewd-looking girl with the Mormont bear on its hind legs emblazoned on her leather breastplate, watching the people clustered around a wagon. Brandon's sombre face turned to gaze at her, smile benign, and Edd's sharp features creased in a contented smile as he leaned against the back of the wagon, watching Meera talk earnestly to a tall woman in a heavy, rich cloak. Meera's eyes darted from the woman to Larra and back; Edd grinned over at Larra, his shrewd eyes alight with anticipation. A hush fell over the courtyard, people staring, parting to allow Larra and the direwolves through the throng of gathered nobles and smallfolk and knights and Free Folk.

The woman in the rich cloak had her lustrous red hair neatly plaited from her face and braided, coiled into a thick bun, the Northern hairstyle known as the "crown" adopted by every noblewoman north of the Neck, waves of copper shimmering over the thick wolf-pelt draped over her shoulders. Her profile was elegant as she turned; a long, slender nose, pretty rosebud lips and short, thick eyelashes. Blue eyes like the skies of the spring of Larra's childhood, damp from shock and relief. Those blue eyes landed on Larra, and the Lady of Winterfell stumbled back, her lips parting, tears streaming down her face in shock, her face grief-stricken, heart-broken.

Larra stared at her sister. Gone was the delicate, petty young girl in softly-hued princess dresses, fussing over her embroidery and her braids; gone the courteous, sharp-tongued girl who cared more for poems and pageantry than appreciating her siblings. Gone the young lady who walked on air, her head full of songs and her heart full of dreams.

It had been the easiest thing in the world to forget, beneath the weirwood, that time was indeed still passing; until she looked at Sansa and felt the blow to her stomach as if kicked in the chest by a mule. Sansa was a woman now.

As a girl she had been pretty, promising great beauty: As a woman, with a steely glint in her blue eyes and her chin raised in defiance even as shock rendered her unsteady on her feet and gulping back tears, she was magnificent. Tall and stately, poised: She radiated strength and an unfamiliar confidence, a sternness that maintained the respect of those around her, even as she was reduced to tears. There was a cold, hewn sombreness to her face now, older and wiser and harsher.

For the first time in her life, Larra thought Sansa looked…_Northern_.

She was shrouded in a thick brocade cloak lined with fur, the fine wolf-pelt on her shoulders glistening in the pale light, her hands concealed by fine leather gloves, and beneath the folds of her cloak, Larra saw the familiar sheen of fine tooled leather and the shimmer of heavy skirts. Larra recognised the fabric, charcoal and onyx patterned with silvery steel-grey crosses. Beneath the clasps of her cloak, two silver direwolves pinned an exquisitely-embroidered high double-collar in place; a silver chain tinkled as Sansa moved, draped around her throat, dangling to her waist, ending with something small and dagger-like that glinted in the light.

Larra had the time to take in the details of her sister's appearance as Sansa strode toward her, her eyes filled with tears, unblinking as she drank in Larra's appearance. Hers was not as magnificent, she knew, but she raised her chin and met Sansa's tear-filled eyes as her own burned, stunned by this stern beauty advancing on her, a smile breaking through as Sansa choked and threw herself at Larra, knocking her off-balance, embracing her.

Stunned. She was stunned. Too stunned to hug back immediately; but she blinked, and hot tears fell down her cheeks, and she found her arms wrapping themselves around Sansa tightly as Sansa shook against her.

She had never been embraced like this by Sansa…like a _sister_.

As an equal. As someone Sansa _loved_.

She hugged back fiercely, her eyes burning as tears streamed down her face, and Sansa shook in her arms, and Larra remembered that this was still her little sister, and that little girl in airy princess gowns was gone for a reason. Suffering had tempered her sister's nature; and Sansa Stark was stronger for the pain, the resilience she had come upon through experience.

Her little sister. A grown woman, stern and unyielding as any she-wolf who had come before her. Beautiful.

Larra hugged her sister, as Sansa wept into her shoulder, shaking. Her little sister. Home. They were home. She panted, and sighed, and relaxed into her sister's embrace as she held her sister upright, the fragrance in Sansa's soft hair beguiling her nose, the softness of her cloak unfamiliar against Larra's scarred palms. She gentled Larra, as she relaxed, stroking her long hair, rocking them both gently.

"Sansa?" she murmured.

"Yes, Larra?"

"Did you steal my dress?"

Startled, Sansa's cries turned to a rippling laugh as they unfolded from each other; Sansa's smile shone through her tears, her eyes glinting, and they parted, though they did not move away from each other.

"I did," Sansa nodded unapologetically, glancing down at the rich folds of her gown. Larra noticed the leather wrapped around her sister's torso in a complicated configuration, the laces hidden at her waist beneath a wide belt. Tears slipped silently down Sansa's delicate pink cheeks as she smiled tremulously. She told Larra earnestly, "I wished to don a she-wolf's pelt. I wanted you with me."

Larra gazed at her sister: They were now the same height, gazing eye-to-eye. She was truly beautiful. Her fiery red hair shimmered as the snows drifted gently around them, clinging to her wet eyelashes, kissing her elegant nose.

"I always was…" Larra told her. How could she not think of her sisters constantly? "Look at you…" She stepped back, keeping a hold on her sister's gloved hands, sweeping her eyes over the gown Sansa had fashioned for herself from Larra's fabrics, the elegant cloak that brought to mind Father, the hairstyle that reclaimed her heritage as a Northwoman. She sniffed, wiping her tears away. She cupped her sister's cheek in one hand, gazing into her face - a face so familiar, and yet so strange - and leaned in to kiss her cheek fiercely. "A warrior-queen stands before me."

"A strategist, perhaps," Sansa corrected, with a little irony. "I never did quite made it to queen."

Larra smiled without delight. "But you made it home."

Sansa gave her a tight, sad smile, a lot left unspoken. "And so have you… The Ironborn claimed they'd kill you."

"It will more than a few krakens to squeeze the life from me," Larra sniffed disdainfully. "I've a dreadfully nasty bite."

Sansa smiled, more warmly this time. "Me too."

_She fed him to his hounds_. "So I've heard," Larra grinned, pride warming her. She glanced around the courtyard, ignoring everyone watching them, focusing only on the Stark sigil draped against the wall. She turned toward the direwolf statues.

"They're new."

"The others were beheaded," Sansa said, with the cold bite of an unexpected frost. Sansa sighed heavily, staring grimly at the new oak door. Her blue eyes slid to Larra. "He's down there, with Father and Robb."

Larra knew who she meant. She didn't need to ask. She gave a tiny nod of acknowledgement as Sansa took her hand, both of them gazing at the door where their father and brothers lay beyond.

Where Larra's mother had been all along.

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**A.N.**: Not going to lie, writing this while listening to the "Marry Me" suite from _POTC: At World's End_ had me _weeping_. I was going to do one reunion, and then I thought of the Best Boy in all of Westeros and I had to give D&D the proverbial F-U by giving Ghost the love and respect he's earned. You all have _LiliLoveNutella_ for provoking this reunion chapter - I didn't know if it was too soon, but I am a slave to my reviewers, so here you are! A two-for-one deal because I'm nice like that.


	17. Dragonglass

**A.N.**: My favourite review of the last chapter was "Gah!" Definitely sums up the feels!

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**Valyrian Steel**

_17_

_Dragonglass_

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It disappointed him, truth be told, how little effort it took to nurture dissention in the ranks. The natives huddled in dread, starving, while the invading hordes of wild-men roved, starving, shuddering with dread every time they found themselves penned in by the ocean. The Prince's paramour and her Sand Snakes were spitting with disappointment; the Tyrells shared disdainful glances; the Greyjoys muttered amongst themselves. They gave sound advice; and the benefit of their recent experiences; gave detailed accounts of Westeros as things lay with the surviving lords and ladies of the Six Kingdoms - _Six_, as the other Westerosi had immediately and irrevocably respected Jon Snow's declaration of independence.

They were too bloodthirsty, too reliant on the Queen's forces for their own ends to risk echoing the declaration. If Jon Snow spoke the truth, he had the most to lose of all of them by not winning alliance with Queen Daenerys': And yet he refused to kneel or placate her to win her. He refused to even try to win her. And that infuriated and intrigued her, to the point that it was Jon Snow's opinion alone that Daenerys Stormborn sought, and listened to.

The old crone Olenna could tell the bright young Queen words of hard-earned wisdom until she was blue in the face, Ellaria Sand could purr seductively of strategy and patience, and yet they were ignored: If Jon Snow repeated what they said, it was he the Queen would likely praise for his intuition and brilliance.

Queen Daenerys ignored her advisors, her council. She ignored everyone but the one man who had sworn independent sovereignty from her family's ancestral, now-defunct dynasty.

Of course, Jon Snow did not contribute at Council meetings. He did not repeat what Lady Olenna or Ellaria Sand advised. But they all knew if he had, the Queen would listen.

They respected Jon Snow; and it rankled that the Queen did not respect their experience, their wisdom, or their allegiance - all because one man had refused her. He had her sole focus. Except to dine with the court, Jon Snow did not show his face: He had his own concerns, and advising Daenerys on her conquest was not a priority. The first man _not_ to fall in thrall to her pretty face or her dragons, he was a man among one million to defy her: And that was deeply attractive to a woman who had become accustomed to being worshipped.

She wanted _him_ to worship her.

And she spent more time trying to figure out how to make that come about, than actually do anything that would remotely impress or earn Jon Snow's respect.

Jon Snow filled his days with his own tasks, and in fulfilling them, he inadvertently - at first - started to settle things on the island, sowing the seeds of admiration and respect, unknowingly nurturing loyalty. Then he realised what he was doing: And went about it blatantly.

It began with something largely unseen, inconsequential to most: A fish.

Insignificant, to those accustomed to full bellies and the abundance of summertime.

Later, maesters might venture that the fate of Queen Daenerys' conquest rested with a single fish.

It began with a fish, and with the King in the North's ship, the one ship moored off the shore that had not been forcibly requisitioned into the Queen's armada. Jon Snow did not ask _permission_ to leave the island: He just did it. And because he did not cede that _appearance_ of the Queen's control over him, everyone acted accordingly. They treated him as the King he was, his orders carried out without hesitation or second-guessing - or _approval_ from the Queen or her counsellors: Jon Snow's men were not denied access to their little dinghy, laden with nets knotted by the islanders, nor were they denied the freedom to row to the King's ship.

When the King's ship sailed past the horizon, it had orders to take Arbour wine to the Saltpans to trade: And to return with barrels of salt. The King did not leave with his ship: His men found lodging in the tiny port, with the understanding that if Jon Snow caught wind that his men had laid so much as a hand on their wives and daughters, his men would _lose_ that hand.

The King in the North would tolerate no violation of guest-right - either as host _or _as guest.

The islanders came out of their cottages, emboldened by a direwolf's protection, to work alongside the Northmen and fish the choicest waters around the island, snaring the migrating shoals, each haul of the nets groaning with thousands of fish. They were not too late.

First it was one small dinghy. Then a handful more were reclaimed from the armada with the King's help, flagrantly, in broad daylight. By the seventh sunrise, a sizeable fleet of liberated boats was hauling fish from the seas. No-one had asked the Queen's permission. They did not seek her forgiveness.

A direwolf had emboldened them, reminded them that they were proud, and fiercely devoted to their own survival - and that they alone knew this island and its secrets. _They_ held the power among the smallfolk gathered, Dothraki and Meereenese and Unsullied and Westerosi, liberated slaves from every known part of the world.

The tiny quay started to bustle as natives taught Dothraki how to prepare saltwater fish; and Meereenese taught the islanders their own peculiar way to preserve fish in vinegar; the Northmen brought their own knowledge, smoking the fish - smoked Northern salmon was a delicacy that had made Lord Manderly rich, exporting shiploads to King's Landing, Highgarden and Lys. Through food, many different cultures came together and communicated, sharing their skills: Little language was necessary - everything was communicated through scent and taste and touch.

Jon Snow solved the problem of immediate starvation. He soothed rattled nerves and helped invaders form lasting bonds with natives, for one very special reason: Survival.

People remembered.

Though the Northmen had been housed by the waterfront, Jon Snow remained a guest at the castle: His presence was felt, and though he was not invited into the Council meetings nor did he ask to be present during them, his comings and goings were discussed at length.

Instead of discussing his efforts to feed the masses gathered on Dragonstone - Queen Daenerys' masses - the Queen focused on his refusal to _kneel_ to her. Instead of questioning what Jon Snow found so intriguing among the dusty shelves of Dragonstone's extensive library, that he spent _hours_ in there, poring over crackling scrolls, undisturbed for hours, she vacillated over the fact he had shown absolutely no interest in either asking for or accepting a seat on her Council.

Jon Snow had not pressed the issue of an alliance to defeat a mythical threat. Queen Daenerys did not question _why_: She obsessed over the fact the King in the North would rather stride the shorelines of the island, and share his meals with the smallfolk, than dine on foreign delicacies as her guest…

It was a curious thing that the Queen, so vicious and condescending - arrogant - toward Jon Snow upon his arrival, now seemed to consider the King in the North her _guest_, and consider him a guest in poor taste for not flattering her. More than that, she seemed to be doing her utmost to try and impress the King in the North. He refused to dine with her every night, preferring the smallfolk's simple, wholesome fare, and sat polite but visibly uncomfortable at the Queen's table, dining on exotic delicacies, listening to queer, unsettling music and watching foreign beauties dance and coil their bodies into intricate knots to entertain them.

And while the Queen nurtured her growing resentment toward her advisers, tempering her impatience with their wisdom, she ignored the people she had brought across the world: She did not see that Jon Snow had arrived at Dragonstone - and shown her up.

First it was the fish: Then it was the glasshouses.

"You once told me your father made you head of all the drains and cisterns at Casterly Rock," Jon said to Lord Tyrion, as they wandered the pine-scented godswood. There was no weirwood here, the residents of the island long since turned to the Light of the Seven: More recently, Stannis Baratheon had burned the statues of the Seven from the castle's sept, offering them up to the Lord of Light. The last autumn roses clung to vines that strangled their way around ancient apple trees, their perfume incongruous against the pervasive odour of sulphur and salt that permeated the air.

"All the shit found its way to the sea," the Imp sighed.

"At Winterfell we have glasshouses. Dozens of them. My father used to warn us as boys that the glasshouses kept the North fed during the worst winters," Jon Snow sighed, frowning. "Even in the deepest snows the glasshouses remained untouched; the hot-springs piped through the walls kept the glasshouses warm. Smallfolk from Winter's Town kept the glasshouses of Winterfell tended, even when they had no lord and master to guide them…they rely on the glasshouses too. Why are yours barren, my lord?"

Lord Tyrion sighed, gazing up at the ancient, dark trees. "An experienced leader trains his inferiors to the point where his absence does not affect how the army performs. Something my father taught me. The North is used to strong, wise leadership - the Starks value their smallfolk as much as their bannermen, and the smallfolk trust the Starks. Such loyalty was not easily broken, as men found to their own destruction."

"Aye," Jon Snow agreed.

"Stannis Baratheon was an effective military leader, but he was not a great lord," Lord Tyrion said, shaking his head. "He did not engender loyalty such as your father did… Every person at Winterfell knew their place, and their value; they took pride in living under Stark rule and in their small way could show their support of the Starks by maintaining Winterfell."

"Do you intend to maintain Dragonstone as your stronghold throughout winter, my lord?" Jon asked, giving him a look that reminded Tyrion so vividly of Ned Stark, who could have had no idea that two of his sons would be named King in the North.

"You can forgive me, Your Grace, if I do not share the Queen's plans for conquest with a foreign ruler," Lord Tyrion smirked, his eyes twinkling.

"Your conquest won't last long, or end the way you want, if you don't respect the winter," Jon said softly. He sighed, shaking his head. "Your glasshouses are empty."

"The Dothraki and Unsullied are many things, Your Grace; sadly farmers is not one of those things," Lord Tyrion smirked.

"They're not all blood-riders and Unsullied," Jon Snow said, giving Tyrion a look. "You visited Winterfell; you explored the castle, I remember you trying to trace the source of the hot-springs that feed the aqueducts, the watercourses that maintain the glasshouses even in the heart of winter."

"A fruitless endeavour," Lord Tyrion sighed, "and hell on my legs. I feel you are driving at something, Your Grace."

"You were at Castle Black when you designed the saddle for my brother Bran," Jon said. "You designed the drains and cisterns of Casterly Rock. Is it possible to design some sort of irrigation system to bring in thermal waters to the glasshouses here at Dragonstone?"

Lord Tyrion smiled at Jon Snow. Even removed from his own castle and lands, the King in the North cared for the safety and survival of _people_ \- whether or not they were '_his_' - one of the reasons he had been named King in the North in the first place.

Within a week, the Hand of the Queen had provided technical drawings, schematics for a system of irrigation to bring thermal water from hot-springs into the castle, to the glasshouses.

And the King in the North was found, not with a sword in his hands but with a spade, one among a team of smallfolk - Dothraki, Meereenese and Dragonstone natives alike - turning over the earth in the neglected raised beds spreading across the glasshouses. Nomadic peoples and city-dwelling slaves had joined the King in the North to learn through his example, as they had when he provided the tools and experience they needed to learn how to fish and preserve their catch, and the natives of Dragonstone found themselves in a position of strength: They _were_ farmers. Their fighting men had long gone off to war, and never returned - those who remained had grown up to fill the voids in the fields, in the fishing-boats. They shared their knowledge, and in doing so assumed positions of authority over the rest. The Dothraki and Meereenese freed-men were invaders, yes; but they were at the mercy of the natives of Dragonstone to survive the winter - winter, a foreign concept to Essos, reserved for tales of the barbaric Westerosi with their furs and wild beards.

The King in the North wore no furs as he tended the earth; his leathers were removed, the sleeves of his coarse linen undershirt rolled up, sweating profusely as he swung a pick-axe to loose stubborn earth.

"I have served a great many Kings in my time," said an elegant voice, "and yet never one such as would toil in the fields beside his people to help provide for them. Where did the King in the North learn to farm?" The King glanced up, squinting as sweat dripped into his eyes. He accepted a ladle of water from a young girl whose task was to run between the diggers and offer a drink. The King wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his undershirt, and glanced at Lord Varys - trying to work him out. So far, the Master of Whisperers had been a polite, soft-spoken man with a neutral expression and only vaguely interested in what went on around him - the great ruse, Jon knew. He was not the terrifying Spider Jon had always heard whispers about when he was a boy.

Lord Varys was…curious. A curious character in himself, and a man full of curiosity. As far as Jon could tell, he was patient, benign and charming - he had as yet to see the Spider as anything but content to observe the juicy flies caught up in his web, twitching this or that strand of silver webbing to suit him.

Jon couldn't say he _liked_ the Master of Whisperers - he was too Southern, even if he was a foreigner: He played court politics too well, and Jon, though he understood the gist of it, could play the game but chaffed against being forced to, especially when time was of the essence.

More and more, the Master of Whisperers had made his presence felt near Jon: Sansa had warned that the Master of Whisperers had a network of spies, even probably Northmen whose swords were sworn to them - they would all be feeding him information. And yet there was little necessity for that, when the Spider himself was content to observe Jon Snow personally. At first, he had never approached, only watched; then he had started conversing with the smallfolk; then Jon's men. Finally, Ser Davos - and Jon, who'd had enough of the lurking, and sat the Spider down with a cup of Northern mulled wine around a campfire.

The Spider seemed as comfortable in silks as in boiled leathers and roughspun; less cautious with the smallfolk, and disdainful of the nobles he manipulated with such ease. He was clever, and patient, and wise.

He had served many kings for a reason. He had weathered every storm, maintaining his position of influence. There was a lesson in that.

Jon couldn't help wonder if Sansa hadn't watched the Spider performing at court, and emulated some of what she saw: His courtesy, his benevolence, his unassuming charisma.

He knew the Master of Whispers was more curious for his own sake about Jon, than for the sake of the Queen - Jon had had to learn how to read people, or he would never have made it this far, never made it out of Mance Rayder's tent: He knew enough about listening to his own instincts to know that the Queen's court was rumbling with discontent.

They weren't impressed that it was Jon Snow, a bastard named King in the North, who had brought together native islanders with Dothraki, Unsullied and Meereenese freed-slaves to fish; to overturn the barren glasshouses and plant winter crops; and to build sturdy accommodations for the thousands who would be left behind when the Unsullied and Dothraki blood-riders sailed to the mainland on conquest. They were disgruntled that Jon Snow had taken initiative in preparing for the winter, and at the same ensuring a continued supply of food - untouchable by Cersei's forces due to the fierce winter sea-storms - and rather than try and convince the Queen that it was in her interests to do it, had already organised the manpower to get the work done before the worst of the winter storms came south.

They were impressed with Jon: Not with _their_ new Queen.

The Master of Whisperers sought Jon out at least once a day to check on his progress. He asked Jon questions, seemingly benign - about his family, his education, his memories of childhood… Anything to gently coax a conversation from Jon, notoriously quiet whenever he graced the Queen's court.

"My sister wasn't born patient. Father used to joke, she came first - too eager to explore the world around her," the King said, his smile pained, something shuttering his dark grey eyes. "We had an excellent Maester at Winterfell - Luwin. When she'd irritated the septa to distraction, Larra was sent to join me and my brothers in the schoolroom. She was the most voracious student - all Robb and Theon and I wanted to do was fight… Maester Luwin taught Larra patience through gardening. She had her own allotments in the gardens and the glasshouses…she loved them; she became meticulous in caring for her plants, and she adored flowers… Maester Luwin taught her to appreciate the details, to give things _time_, to nurture…to have hope… When things were bad with Lady Catelyn, Larra would go to her gardens…they soothed her… I'd be the one to go and find her and bring her back when she was ready… She used to put me to work. I learned, because she had. We'd tend the allotments, and Larra would tell me of her plans for the autumn harvest, how she'd prepare for winter… She knew she'd be left behind, to look after Winterfell for Robb…"

Lord Varys smiled enigmatically, something dark and pained in his eyes.

"I never met the King in the North, of course, your brother, Robb," Lord Varys amended, his eyes turning thoughtful, almost sad, "But your father… He abhorred the game, but he understood better than any the true nature of power. When he was Lord of Winterfell there was not a day that went by that he did not invite a stranger to dine beside him. To hear of their life, their profession, to hear their stories, and their wants, their grief and their hopes." The Spider glanced around the glasshouses, watching people turn over the earth in the raised beds, more working with the guidance of the architects to make Lord Tyrion's plans a reality.

"My father said never ask a stranger to fight for you," Jon said, and the Master of Whisperers nodded.

"You took your father's words to heart, Your Grace."

"They've never failed me yet," Jon Snow said grimly, his face shuttering of all emotion. One thing could be said of Ned Stark: His children had loved _and_ respected him. That was a rare combination.

"I can say, honestly, Your Grace, having worked closely with Lord Eddard as Hand of the King, and having heard his reputation for many years before that…he would be very proud of your contributions to Dragonstone." He bowed his head respectfully. "It would appear that you are incapable of _not_ improving the lot of all those you meet. Most would enjoy the time in idleness; Queen Daenerys did bring some wonderful entertainers with her from the exotic East."

"Aye, she did," Jon Snow said grimly: The beauties from far away could not turn Jon Snow's eye. He shook his head. "I can't be idle, Lord Varys… I feel like I'm failing if I'm standing still… I know there's work to be done at Winterfell - Dragonstone may well be one of the last outposts of Westeros…" He broke off, shaking his head; he had not repeated his request for an alliance, for the Queen to send her hordes North to aid Winterfell in a war no-one believed was real.

Lord Varys asked knowingly, "Has the Queen provided anything toward this undertaking?"

"After a fashion," Jon Snow smirked, nodding toward the wheelbarrows waiting, some being emptied into the raised beds. "_Shit_. According to Lord Tyrion the ancient Valyrians used dragon dung to fertilise their crops. Let's just say the Queen's children have provided amply toward the regeneration of the glasshouses." Lord Varys raised his eyebrows, not in the least surprised that the Queen had had only indirect involvement in a venture that would benefit those who followed her.

After the fish came the glasshouses; after the glasshouses came Winter's Town.

There were simply too many people: The island was not equipped, nor were the nomads who had accompanied the armada. The Dothraki were not used to _cold_: They had no experience of vicious sea-storms, or of ice. They had no comprehension of _snow_. They were not even used to bitterly cold winds gusting off the choppy black waters. Their tents of hide would not suffice: There was not sufficient grass to build mud-huts as the Dothraki would in their sacred city of Vaes Dothrak.

Once again it was Jon Snow who went among the people, using a translator among the Unsullied, and then Missandei, and sought out builders, carpenters and architects - and there were several, among the Dothraki freed-slaves and those from Meereen who had followed Daenerys Targaryen to a better life.

On the advice of Ser Davos, the bluntly-spoken, wise Onion Knight, Jon Snow designed a town: The first buildings rose in the shadow of the castle, protected by it, blocking the bitterest of winter winds coming down from the north and taking full advantage of the meagre winter sunlight. Drawing on his knowledge of Winterfell and Winter's Town, and Lord Varys' intimate knowledge of the best and worst of King's Landing's neighbourhoods, the town was planned, and rose quickly with the available workforce idle and becoming agitated. People were put to work: And because they were working on somewhere they would live, protected from the elements they were unused to, in preparation for a winter they had never experienced, they were happy to keep working.

They were happy to help the King in the North.

"You've done much, Your Grace, in only a very short time," Lord Varys said in a congratulatory tone, bowing his head respectfully. "I must commend you. Yet you have asked for nothing in return. No mention of an alliance with Queen Daenerys."

The King stared long and hard at the Spider, and simply said, "No." Jon chose his words very carefully.

He had gone in strong with a request for full alliance and unified military strength to defeat a common enemy the Queen did not believe existed.

_Anything_ he might glean from her - or her advisers - would be more than he had hoped for, though less than they thought he wanted.

They were all fucked if he couldn't get dragonglass.

So, on one of the finer afternoons when Jon took himself off for a long walk along the coast, gazing northwards, and he was met by Lord Tyrion who mentioned the Spider and Jon's lack of persistence, Jon asked.

"Obsidian. Dragonstone sits atop a mountain of it," Jon told Tyrion, as the Master of Whisperers observed silently, his hands hidden in the rich folds of his heavy, exotic robes, now fur-trimmed as the Westerosi weather had started to bring on near-daily storms - the days of fishing had passed, the shoals snared just in time. "Obsidian's the only thing that can kill a White Walker, and with them all wights they turned perish. My brother Sam stabbed one with a dagger of obsidian; it shattered into a thousand pieces of ice and melted away… I would ask a guest-gift of the Queen; to mine the caves of dragonglass and ship it back to Winterfell."

"That's all?" Lord Tyrion asked dubiously, as if Jon was being absurd with his modest request.

"I don't suppose I could request the Queen allow me to commandeer one of her dragons for the war-effort?" Jon quipped; Lord Tyrion's lips twitched.

"I'd imagine the answer would be a firm _no_," he smirked. "Why a dragon?"

"Fire kills wights."

"I thought you said obsidian kills wights."

"Obsidian kills White Walkers, renders whatever magic created them null," Jon explained calmly. "A wight is a reanimated corpse, raised and controlled by a White Walker. Fire kills wights; but only obsidian and Valyrian steel kills White Walkers."

"How many White Walkers are there?" Lord Varys asked curiously.

"There is the Night King, and at least a dozen commanders," Jon said, glancing at Lord Tyrion. "They put your father to shame. And they command legions. After the losses at Hard Home…to say a hundred thousand of the dead march upon the Wall would be a safe estimate."

"And you intend to equip Northmen with obsidian to fight an army of a hundred-thousand?" Lord Tyrion asked.

"We'll fight; and we'll die. But what else should we do?" the King in the North asked. Neither of the Queen's advisers could answer him.

But they did grant his request.

Rather, they coaxed and bullied and wheedled and charmed the Queen into granting the request - obsidian as a guest-gift, the parting-gift a host gave someone as token that they were no longer under the protection of guest-right.

It was a subtle hint from Jon that his time at Dragonstone was nearing its end: That he would expect no favours from the Queen, or alliance, or protection. He would _expect_ her acknowledgement that the North was an independent kingdom - and because it was expected, and because he had shown himself every inch a king, a leader the people of Dragonstone _needed_ \- Dothraki, native islanders, Meereenese freed-slaves and Unsullied alike - there were only two options open to the Queen: Accept that the North would never kneel to her.

Or execute the King in the North she lusted after, and ensure the North would never kneel to her.

The Queen was sufficiently enthralled by the King in the North that she graciously granted the use of four of her own ships to increase the volume of mined obsidian being shipped to Winterfell - and increase the chances that at least one ship would make it to White Harbour with its cargo intact: The seas were getting rougher.

Theon Greyjoy offered Ironborn to sail the ships North, through the treacherous waters.

Only the Ironborn enjoyed vicious storms! They were the only men stupid - and mad - enough to take a thrill from the brutality of the elements.

And they were the only men in the known world unafraid to sail them: The only men who could get the precious cargo of obsidian to Winterfell, through any dangers.

"Jon!" the voice echoed off the dank walls. He still couldn't get used to the cold, to the idea that Princess Shireen had grown up in this miserable place, to the sound of Theon Greyjoy's voice. They had lingered in a state of polite distance for weeks, ever since Jon's arrival; whenever he appeared at court, Theon did his best to make himself invisible - not wishing to provoke confrontation with Jon. It was the first time he had approached Jon: Perhaps because there were only the eyes of Ser Davos on him. He raised his pale eyes to Jon's face hesitantly. "Could I speak with you?"

Jon turned, paused…watched Theon Greyjoy teetering at the top of the steps, beside Queen Daenerys' jagged throne. Ser Davos caught his eye: Jon made his decision, then and there.

"Aye," he murmured to the smuggler, who nodded and departed. Jon waited for Theon to descend the steps; he walked hunched, cowering, a reminder of all Sansa had told Jon he had endured…afraid of himself, of his memories, his own shadow - and now afraid of Jon. Perhaps he always had been, since the moment he betrayed Robb. Sansa had told Jon that Theon refused to take the black, to see Sansa to the end of her journey to Castle Black, that Jon would kill him as soon as look at him.

"What you said…when you arrived at Dragonstone… You could've lied to the Queen, promised to bend the knee if she joined you… You didn't have to warn her about the White Walkers… You risked everything to tell an enemy the truth," Theon said thoughtfully.

"I came here to make peace before the North could be drawn into yet another conflict we will not survive," Jon said earnestly. "And it seems to me, we need to be honest with each other if we're ever going to fight beside each other."

"You've always known what was right," Theon said gloomily, though with that hint of respect utterly foreign in Jon's memory of him. Theon gazed at Jon, gazed through Jon, as if seeing their younger selves, sparring in the courtyard. "Even when we were all young and stupid, you always knew. Every step you take…it's always the right step."

"It's not," Jon said grimly. "It may seem that way from the outside, but I promise you - it's not true. I've done plenty of things that I regret."

Theon Greyjoy looked him in the eye and cringed in shame. "Not compared to me, you haven't."

Jon went still, his face leeched of all emotion, his eyes hard shards of obsidian in the gloomy hall. "No," he agreed, a dangerous undercurrent making his words heavy, "not compared to you."

Theon's lips parted, his eyes gazing into a distance, horror flickering across his face, and grief. Then he set his jaw in resolve, and Jon heard his gasp before he plunged ahead, stepping down to Jon's level and admitting, "I always wanted to do the right thing… Be the _right kind_ of person. But I never knew what that meant. It always seemed like there…there was an impossible choice I had to make… Stark or Greyjoy."

Jon clenched his jaw, and strode forward - didn't touch Theon; and Theon did not flinch. He knew his brother too well: Jon would have killed him that first day he arrived, if he'd truly wanted to.

Breathlessly, grief-stricken, heart-broken, Jon rushed out, "Our father was more of a father to you than yours ever was!"

"He was."

"-and you betrayed him. Betrayed his _memory_."

"I did," Theon said softly, raising his tired eyes to Jon's stern face. He didn't look like Robb - he looked like Ned. Like Benjen, honour-bound to the Watch; and like Bran…who Theon had driven from his home…

And _Larra_…

Jon sighed, nodding to himself. "But you never lost him…" He raised his eyes to Theon's. "He's a part of you. Just like he's a part of me."

"The things I've done," Theon said shakily.

Jon sighed. "It's not my place to forgive you for all of it," he said gently, "but what I can forgive…I do." Theon raised his eyes to Jon's face, visibly stunned. "You don't need to choose. You're a Greyjoy…and you're a Stark… _Thank you_, for what you did for Sansa."

"When I was Ramsay's prisoner…Yara…tried to save me. She's the only one…who tried to save me," Theon said shakily. He looked at Jon. "I should've protected her. Protected Larra…our sister… The first time I ever arrived at Winterfell, she wore her hair in two plaits, and she had bloody knees, and the biggest smile you've ever seen… She thought I was another of Ned Stark's bastards. The first thing she ever said to me was 'Welcome home, brother'…she embraced me, kissed my cheek… I was vile to her. Insulted she thought I was a bastard."

"You were wounded, stripped from what remained of your family," Jon said compassionately.

"She offered me unconditional love," Theon said softly, his voice thick, "And I betrayed her."

"And she got the better of you," Jon reminded him, and a faint smile teased at the corner of Theon's mouth.

"Aye… Didn't she always?" he said sadly. His shoulders slumped, and he sighed. "I'd give anything to go back to our schoolroom."

"Aye," Jon agreed grimly, too exhausted to allow himself to linger in those memories. He sighed, squinting at Theon. "Do you remember Old Nan's stories?" Theon nodded tentatively. "Let me show you something…"

"When Maester Luwin was teaching us Geography did you ever imagine we'd both end up here? And after such journeys?" Theon asked quietly, following Jon and the flickering torchlight further into the caves that glistened deep onyx striated with multi-coloured hues when the firelight struck at odd angles.

They had found the cave early into their stay on Dragonstone, the entrance to the caves vast, unspoiled: There was only one place in the entire network of caverns that Jon had declared off-limits to the pick-axes now hacking at the walls at all hours - volunteer miners worked in shifts to ensure a constant stream of obsidian being passed out, crated up and shipped north.

"I don't think anybody could've ever predicted our lives," Jon said grimly, striding on ahead, sure-footed in territory he had familiarised himself with over weeks. As in the glasshouses, the King in the North had taken up an axe to join the men working: Mutual respect radiated from the men labouring as Jon wove past them, and the flickering torches nestled strategically around the caves, to one particular alcove half-hidden by what Maester Luwin would have called a natural _optical illusion_ \- a trick of the eyes, two rock-faces concealing a narrow passage into a small, sheltered cave. Jon had found it purely by accident, following the trail of smoke from one of his torches as the air sucked the smoke toward the entrance: The cave had once, eons ago, been a hiding-spot, perhaps even a home.

Jon slid into the cave sideways, and for a breathless, heart-sinking moment, he entered a different cave… He blinked, and took a breath, and eased into the chamber. Small, but the ceiling of the cave rose out of sight. Theon slipped into the cave beside him, and as Jon raised his torch, Theon Greyjoy's lips parted.

"White Walkers."

"Aye. And the Children," Jon said, pointing out the etchings in the obsidian, ancient markings made beyond the Age of Heroes.

"Nan's stories…they were here…they were real," Theon breathed.

"Yes," Jon smiled, raising the torch higher to show the markings. "Thousands upon thousands of years ago, the First Men came here… I think they mined for obsidian themselves…" He shone the light closer to some of the etchings - the White Walkers…the curious spirals all White Walkers and wights now left their prey, dismembered bodies, limbs… _Ever the artists_… He wondered why they mimicked the spirals…one of the etchings showed weirwoods growing in a similar pattern - the grove above the Wall had grown in a similar pattern, Jon remembered.

"You think Men made these drawings?"

"Aye," Jon said, showing Theon more of the etchings. White Walkers…and Children…and Men - Men riding _direwolves_, holding spears of obsidian…

"Starks!" Theon blurted a laugh of astonishment, and Jon's eyes glinted in the torchlight as they both smiled up at the etchings.

"Brandon the Builder," Jon said warmly, smiling.

"Brandon the Builder, riding a direwolf into battle…and here you are, all those thousands of years later…they used to say Robb rode Grey Wind into battle… The way they tell it, you rode Ghost into battle at the head of a wildling army," Theon said, his smile easy for the first time, a grin that reminded Jon of their childhood. Even the mention of Robb did not dim their smiles, for this one moment.

"Strange how history rhymes," Jon said, gazing up at the etchings. Whether it had been an etching of Brandon the Builder was anyone's guess; Jon liked to believe it was. Maester Luwin used to say that history did not repeat; but sometimes the rhyme appeared later, similar but non-identical circumstances creating unique events that echoed throughout history.

That night, gathered around a campfire on the shore, they listened to one of Jon's men - a veteran of Hard Home and a fierce warrior who refused to leave the King's side, representative of his people and warning to any who dared cross the King in the North - sing songs of the Free Folk in the common tongue, telling the stories of Brandon Stark and the Night King.

Theon sat beside one of his sisters, and one of his brothers, sharing fish stew and ale and listening to familiar but altered stories he and Jon had grown up on. They both thought of their brothers and sisters - the dead, and the living.

And Theon couldn't help compare one King in the North to the other, to their dead brother he had betrayed… And Jon, the brother who had forgiven him for it.

Since leaving Winterfell, they had both become men. Their journeys had been different, but no less difficult.

They finished their meals, finished their ale, and both went to their beds to live with their regret. And wake up the next morning, nurturing _hope_ for a better future than the years they had endured.

* * *

**A.N.**: This wasn't where I had intended to go with this chapter - it ran away from me! I wanted to show time passing without having to detail every single day… I have to say, Varys has always been one of my favourite characters: He deserved better.


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